Diary of an Angry, Hungry, Fat, Gay Mexican — Week 5, Day 27 — “Like Me, Love Me”

Diary of an Angry, Hungry, Fat, Gay Mexican — Week 5, Day 27 — “Like Me, Love Me”

 

Weight: 249.6

Glucose Reading: 123

“Worry
Why do I let myself worry?
Wondering
What in the world did I do?”

— From “Crazy” (Willie Nelson)

I truly do feel crazy of late. Even this post takes a turn due to current events, so hang on.

I am crazy for being so lonely, despite the good that surrounds me at the moment. While my social media posts of late are of the #45 trolling nature, I actually do feel rather good about a lot things. My weight is down, dropping at a rate that is healthy and realistic. Sugar is WAY down from its epic high of the 400’s earlier this year. My eating habits are starting to adjust to what makes sense to eat at the moment as opposed to just eating all the things that numb my feelings away. Creating that soft blanket of armor is something best left on my bed.

So, why the unease? I’m tired of fighting these gusts of loneliness. It doesn’t help that our days of rain and road rage have colored the city a less appealing shade of grey lately. One drought may be in the midst of being repaired, while my dating drought seems to be holding on a bit longer.

Part of this mentality is fueled by the “Chicken and the Egg” mechanics of dating and meeting people today. A lot of it is driven by apps, something that already makes me wonder where the time went while I busy inventing the MediaJor persona. Forget about the chat rooms and Craig’s Listings of yore. We are even going beyond Scruff and Growlr. Now we have “MeetUp.” It is on my queue of things to try this year and I am sure the experience will inspire a diary entry or two. The existence of this app fascinates me while pulling the trigger on one my most defining insecurities.

I’ve always considered myself a very social person. Well, let me rephrase that. I was a very social person, completely secure as to what made me unique as a kid. That ended around third grade, which is when I took a major detour once I became hyper aware of the social hierarchies of adolescence. At first, I didn’t really pay attention to the awkward reality of being that Cole Porter kid in a sea of Chicanos with totally different interests. I thought all kids loved movies, musicals and books as much as me. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that wasn’t at all the case.

When reality kicked in, I bid a retreat from what made me “Jorge” and tried to turn it around by being “George,” seeking acceptance and feeling devastated when I still remained a background player. Then I would couple my voracious appetite for popular culture with two or three more helpings of whatever Mom made for dinner. I see where I kicked off the chain of events that would be one of my biggest challenges to overcome: maintaining a healthy body image.

As a gay man, I know I am not alone in living with that vicious cycle of self-flagellation over how we look to the world. If having abs and a gun show didn’t matter, gyms would go out of business with our mass exodus. I still obsess over my appearance and how people perceive me. Any shortcomings were covered up with being more of a “personality” since I wasn’t so secure in my being a “person” people could care about, much less desire. God, this era of trolling for “Likes” is just a more insidious means of finding acceptance and validation, one that preys on the weak and insecure like a plague. It is so fucked up, seeing men turn into teenage girls. It’s all tattoos, jock straps, duck lips and mirror shots that are so filtered, even Doris Day would go, “It’s not supposed to be like looking through cataracts, dear!”

How do we inoculate ourselves from this virulent form of narcissism and self-absorption? I’m guilty of the selfie ritual, almost to the point of ridicule from people close to me who can’t bear to see the pics clog up their Facebook feeds. However, part of the process of reconciling an emotional connection with food includes restoring a positive image of yourself. That’s something I haven’t really had in over four decades of living.

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When I step down from this wheel of “Oh, I am so lonely” long enough, I recognize the truth about what it is that draws people to the eye. Yes, aesthetics play a role. We’re a visual society, more so than ever. But it does matter to strike that inner spark of contentment, the one that is born from being secure with your true self. This is nothing new and it goes beyond the memes and magazine-speak that makes obvious pronouncements seem profound. Hell, even RuPaul has a version that drips with sequins and glitter, but it is true. “If you can’t love yourself, how the hell are you gonna love somebody else.”

Better living through chemistry, rather, the pills I am taking have helped a lot in beating back the darkness that’s shrouded me for a long while. These last weeks of eating better and making better food choices have also returned some vim and verve in my step. But, lurking in the corners, like dust bunnies clinging for dear life, is that woe of being alone.

In speaking with a friend this week, whose own travails with matters of the heart are complicated enough to make me want to take a vow of celibacy, I found myself offering advice that I should heed myself. He isn’t ready for the relationship he is in at the moment. His BF is a very social creature who enjoys many of the trappings of gay life that my friend  can barely tolerate, if at all. More, his own insecurities about being left and deemed unworthy have triggered a few flashbacks of from my own dating life. 

I am reminded of what I did to my own Ex during and after our two splits. Seeing my Ex appear on the gay apps like Growlr hasn’t helped me much, either. It’s just another track on the “Being Left Behind” hit parade. This friend and I are kindred spirits in this regard and we both have grappled with finding the love for ourselves. I think I am making progress in the sense that I do love myself enough to want to be healthier, to release myself from the tyranny of food and take charge. As for the crazy love for another part? It does always read better on the page or seen on the big screen, so my focus is shifting to the rational on that front now that I’ve purged a little of this angst in this diary entry. But I don’t want to relinquish the crazy just yet. Hear me out.

Author Paolo Coelho stated, “I prefer to crazy and happy rather than normal and bitter.” We’re moving past bitter these days. Normal was never a word I’d ever choose to describe myself. Crazy is a given. Happy? I think I’ll continue to dine on that possibility for as long as it does my body, brain and heart good.

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While composing this entry, it was announced that #45’s administration withdrew the protections implemented by President Obama on transgender bathroom use in public schools. I’ve never felt skilled in dealing with the political because my focus was too narrow and even superficial when it came to this blog. However, I find I can’t just sit in this space of looking inward without addressing what I see outside this bubble.

This diary on food and self-awareness began with a simple question:  “Is my life worth saving?” In the current climate, where protections for the queer and transgender communities are being removed as we speak, it is trivial to sit here prattling on and on about the lack of love in my life. I can’t follow a linear course with my thoughts of late. I don’t think anyone can, particularly with the frequency with which #45 is systematically turning the US into a Russian outpost of hate.

Love is not something I lack, that’s obvious. But, the pressures of conformity are now coupling with the incredible fear that many in this country have to contend with on a daily level. Many are losing that battle, taking their lives because death seems like a better option over continued persecution. The question I find myself pondering is fast becoming, “Are all lives worth saving in America.”

I think about what it felt like being the chubby kid who wasn’t like the other boys. It wasn’t until I became an adult that I’ve been able to face the consequences of those years. It’s bad enough the body politics that rule within the gay community are discriminating enough. That’s a topic for another rant. However, I do recognize just how lucky I was to NOT be ostracized or isolated in college or the workplace.  But that isn’t the case for many queer or transgender youths today, despite the progress that was so hard won and now faces a regressive era that defies basic human rights.

No one should ever want for love in this world. No one should ever want for acceptance and respect despite being “different.” But for change to happen, we must change ourselves from within. I recognize the power in shedding that which does nothing but harm me. Imagine if that same power can be shared with others in shedding that which does nothing but harm our way of living.

It is important to recognize that the loneliness I feel will be just one more layer that will be stripped away with the rest of that which ails me as I continue this journey to better health. What will be found underneath remains to be seen. However, the strength gained must be put to good use. Truth matters in a fight. And the lines are being drawn as I write these words. Because if we’re aiming for crazy and happy as a society, it will take vanquishing those bitter souls who dare decide what is “normal” today.

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“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.

 

Wasn’t It Romantic…? o “Las aventuras de un oso viejo y cachondo”

Wasn’t It Romantic…? o “Las aventuras de un oso viejo y cachondo”

Isn’t it romantic?
Merely to be young on such a night as this?
Isn’t it romantic?
Every note that’s sung is like a lover’s kiss

Sweet symbols in the moonlight
Do you mean that I will fall in love perchance?

“Isn’t It Romantc?” — Music by Richard Rodgers, Lyrics by Lorenz Hart

I hate to break it to Ella or the Messrs. Rodgers & Hart. It isn’t so romantic anymore to be young — or in my case “mature” — on any given day/night when you’re single in LA in 2016. Those “sweet symbols”of yore have been replaced by emojis and the art of flirting has given way to acts of narcissism, sexting, pexting and a strange paranoia that everyone is going to stalk you if you dare to ask for their phone number.

What happened to the fine art of seduction!? I think I can chart the course of our romantic Titanic to this famed opening from one of Candace Bushnell’s “Sex and the City” columns:

“Welcome to the Age of Un-Innocence. The glittering lights of Manhattan that served as backdrops for Edith Wharton’s bodice-heaving trysts are still glowing—but the stage is empty. No one has breakfast at Tiffany’s, and no one has affairs to remember—instead, we have breakfast at 7 A.M. and affairs we try to forget as quickly as possible. How did we get into this mess?”

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And that was in the 1990s, way before we even reached this intersection of technology and dating that dominates us today.

To be fair, love and sex have always been risky investments and commodities to broker with during any given era. Yet,something changed in us in the 1980s, where we became enthralled with the art of the deal and every relationship could be viewed as a transaction that either paid off (or not) with (or without) financial gain or status upgrades. A pervasive layer of cynicism took root back then and I am starting to think it had an unforeseen consequence on subsequent generations of adults looking for love, sex or whatever passes for intimacy these days.

Behold this lovely message I received on Growlr today:

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Yup. You read that right. “Love to be in bondage to you, Sir!”

Let that marinate for a minute.

Have decades of broken marriages, absent parenting and a steady diet of reality TV “courtships for the camera” warped or corrupted our ability to love and be loved? Why is it now okay to reveal your junk in the first 15 minutes of a text exchange, but the second we offer up a little sentiment or vulnerability, you shut us down? “Blocked!” Are we so distrustful of compliments that we confuse them with bullshit hyperbole or read them as code for an ulterior motive ? Again, “Blocked!” And don’t forget the ultimate sin of app dating: never ask for and suggest an exchange of phone numbers.

Now, back to the bondage comment.

Nothing exists in my Growlr profile that even remotely proclaims I have a desire for kink, fetish or any other alternative life style variation thereof. So what endgame did this gentleman even hope to achieve? It caught me so off guard, I didn’t even know how to react. Laughter was first, followed by “What the Fuck!” I mean, that text took balls, which I am sure are wrapped up with strips of leather at the time it was sent. Haha. I don’t begrudge anyone their tastes in terms of sex, but you have to KNOW your audience before sending any such missive.

In the days since that text, I can’t stop thinking about how the art of romance seems to be all but D.O.A. these days. I think of the American Songbook classics that have scored many of my favorite films, counterpointing what romance could look and sound like if given the chance. But love and relationships must live in a different world. And like any transaction, you do get what you pay for. So, why do I shop at the Growlr or Scruff store? Good question.

At times, I find myself at odds with the men I do encounter on these sites. The type of men I’ve engaged with, whether via text or in person, have changed a bit since I grew my beard, if you can believe it. Suddenly, my sexual desirability has manifested into something that is marketable and wanted thanks to my facial hair. Go figure. Some don’t seem to be put off by my observations or way of expressing myself. Others have stayed happily put behind their carefully built fortresses of solitude or indifference. I’ve gotten better about moving on and tapering back any level of persistence. If you’re receiving the most generic of comebacks, cease and desist and no one gets “Blocked!”

It is easy to denigrate the app experience as shallow, lazy and dehumanizing. Why take it at all seriously in the first place? Well, it’s replaced our concept of community, like most social networking sites. Since our lifeblood comes with Apple Care now, we have chosen to allow our dependence on smart phones and other devices to bring the world to us on our terms. Here we live in our shining iTowers, hoping to spare ourselves any indignities, awkward exchanges and diminished expectations from the safety of our own private spaces. It can all be deleted as if it never happened. What a marvel!

What a tragedy.

We will continue to swipe ourselves silly, never sure as to what we want, but darn certain as to who we don’t want to bring into our real time fold. In some ways, app life is like the old days of clubbing, where we would meet and dance with that possible Mr. Right or Mr. Right Now but always kept a close eye on the door should a better option walk in.

It makes me laugh still that we were so willing to take the bigger risk of calling those 900 or 800 number “meeting” lines where your prospective honey was only a voice! Now, your destiny is thumbnail size, for those of us who think nothing of posting our faces. (That people still prefer their own version of a closet reveals a lot of the stigma that still exists today for many men grappling with their sexuality.) The animosity against such “faceless” profiles is something to behold. Vehemence is a good word. So much for #strongertogether.

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I don’t know how much longer I will continue sampling the gay buffet offered by the apps. This perpetual state of “speed” dating is exhausting and not very fulfilling. In all honesty, as I begin my journey towards 50 (and we haven’t even touched on the incredible ageism found on the apps, but next time), I think I am finally understanding that actively looking for love is not how it is found. And that’s okay because despite my reservations, something good has come out of all this Growlr-ing around.

I am able to put together my own community of gay men, men that are engaging and interesting to know as friends. It’s been a slow process, but it feels so great to be social with other men who even share some of my sensibilities. In fact, the line “Las aventuras de un oso viejo y cachondo” was crafted during one exchange with a supremely genteel and appealing Mexicano who just started his first term at FIDM in Los Angeles.

None of this may be romantic, but it is wonderfully human and real. If I had to answer the query, “Dating apps, friend or foe?” I would probably respond with “frenemy.” Like it or not, as with anything in life, it is all what you make of it. As for my woes about the scarcity of romance, I refuse to let go of my ideals in that regard. I’m just starting to love myself again, that’s one romance that’s been long overdue.

It is affirming to discover in small pockets that romance isn’t dead for all of us. For as long as we as gay men cherish the ideals of being treated with respect and care, romance will never be relegated to being a luxury item for the privileged few. Cynics beware, us new romantics are legion and our numbers can only grow from here.

Something tells me the best is yet to come…take it away, Ella.

“In the broken promise land of 30…” — #glassboxofemotion

“In the broken promise land of 30…” — #glassboxofemotion

“Human life is but a series of footnotes to a vast obscure unfinished masterpiece”
Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita

This is one blog entry I have not been able to leave well enough alone. While its theme has remained intact, I keep refining what was originally written at a peak setting of emotion. Some phrases just sounded trite. Others seemed full of contempt against the gent that inspired this post. It didn’t seem fair because I wasn’t hurt by him. He didn’t do anything. But I think I can walk away from it now.

It wasn’t anger that motivated me to offer this post-mortem on the events of the last few weeks. It was a desire to understand why someone, who exhibited such fire, would just snuff it out without warning or reason. Honestly, this is a real first in my dating life, which made it an ideal topic to explore in these pages. I know I am not alone in experiencing this phenomenon.

So, here goes…

Since ending it with my Ex over four years ago, I’ve tried to evolve myself into being a latter day Jack Tripper. You know, enjoying the company of a different guy every week. Regular drinks at the Regal Beagle, i.e. the Eagle. Never wanting to settle down, never allowing myself to be someone’s “catch.” I wanted to be single and ready to mingle! I wanted to be living life as a paragon of unbridled, but safe, sexuality. It would be oh-so perfect except for one minor thing.

I’m the version of Jack Tripper that does want to get caught.

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Dating in your 40s in L.A. is sure as hell not for pussies. I still have yet to master the art of being detached and cool when it comes to reading the signals from the other guy. But man, it’s like I’m dyslexic. I always seem to get it wrong. Although, I’d be curious to see if anyone would have read this situation any different.

When we first met, the connection between us was surprisingly tangible. It was immediate, visceral and pretty fucking hot. He possessed humor, vitality, introspection and optimism. It was a high, to be honest. I couldn’t wait to kiss him again because it was THAT GOOD. Hell, I’ve stumbled through enough situations with blind faith. His brand of shock was something that woke me up. We had great banter. We spoke with honesty and humor. At the very least, it was the start of a new friendship

Then, after a night at the movies, I told him, “Dammit. I am starting to like you.”

Cue the crowd going, “Awww, dude! You blew it!”

Yeah, you could practically hear the tables turn ever so slightly. Things dropped a few degrees, nothing worth causing a commotion. Yet, in the back of my head, I knew I stepped into it. My chronic case of verbal diarrhea flared right up. I thought I kept in check with some mental Imodium, but maybe not.

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We went out one more time. Another movie. (Ironically, it was “The Theory of Everything.” I think Stephen Hawking’s theories are easier to figure out than dating in L.A.!) Another hand holding session during the movie. Another late night meal, where we got to know each other a bit more. Another great kissing session at the end, albeit not as crazy as the first few times. Still, I walked away mollified. My explanation of “my liking him” meant “I’m glad we’re not treating each other like pieces of meat.” It was designed to clear up any trace of “hold on, pal. I ain’t into you that way.”

But there was some truth to it. I genuinely liked being with this gent…as a person. When he dropped the question, “Real talk. What’s your expectation?” I honestly didn’t have any. I was thinking only of how exciting the day turned out. If anything, it would have been great if we only decided to keep up the line of dialogue because it was interesting. He was interesting. I’ll be darned if he didn’t epitomize cool. He was smart, witty and held a great passion for filmed arts. I have enough friends, that’s true. But, I also know that you want to be around people like this when they make their presence known. If anything, he was an exciting new ingredient to introduce to a recipe that could stand a remix.

Most people hold fast to the truth that you don’t always reveal every thought to someone you just meant. But how else are you supposed to get to know a person unless you reach out and touch someone? There was no barrage of texts or urgent demands as to when we’d see each again. I gave him space, because everyone has a life, right? It was hard not to get excited, though. Excited can be desirable. Desperate is not.

I got a few good morning texts, a few other exchanges. Then…total silence. Mr. Excitement had evaporated in less than a week. Now I’m left wondering, “What the hell happened?”

Was there was a family emergency? Did he lose his phone and can’t restore his contact info? Perhaps he met someone better suited for him? Maybe he wasn’t single after all? Maybe he got scared or scared off? Maybe he really did just want a hook up? Maybe my id was too fuckin’ apparent? Maybe he got some really bad advice from friends, telling him to slow the F down? Did I reach out too much? Am I just too old or not daddy enough? Or maybe, as the saying goes, “He’s just NOT that into you!” Hahaha. (Fuck you, SATC. This is real life!)

Meh. What’s the point of speculating at all? Even if guys do the gentlemanly thing to offer an explanation, it never arrives as a satisfying answer. Silence is never golden, but it sure speaks volumes.

This all makes me feel so freakin’ stupid. Writing this as a blog entry is probably a little too Taylor Swift for its own good. But, I hold fast to the rule of “writing what I know” and he did inspire two entries already. The upside is he encouraged me to stop this Eeyore Syndrome for a moment. He woke me up, which was such a nice feeling.

Again, I learned a long time ago that expectations mean disappointments. Is it wrong to feel a bolt of good had creeped after so much chaos within myself and my family these last few months? It was that thrill of being reckless, of being unshackled from the norm that made me feel a sense of hope. It wasn’t my heart that was stirred. I am still a long ways of giving that up to anyone just yet. It was proof that my libido was alive and kicking again.

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By now, I am sure some of your are wondering why the “Lolita” reference. No, he wasn’t 15. (Sigh of relief, huh?) But, he was 30, not my first time at this particular demo rodeo, either. Know that it doesn’t really matter the age group. A variation of this fade out happened earlier this year with someone who was approaching 50. Sometimes I think I’lm naive enough to be 15 when it comes to this bullshit.

Perhaps you’re thinking, “Well, he’s 30, what else did you expect? Why aren’t you meeting people your own age?” For the record, it isn’t their age that compels me. It is more a person’s attitude, their enthusiasm for life and living that I seek. That, along with a great smile and the means to communicate, whether through humor or intellect, are essential. Bonus points if he creates art or harbors a desire to express himself in an artistic medium. Surprise. They ain’t easy to find, folks. But, on paper, he was that kind of gent.

To be frank, I don’t understand this era of gay men at all. Although, I don’t think I’ve ever really had much of a grasp in the first place. Today, it’s like we’ve all failed to understand the meaning of consequences. Is it possible that most of us think emotions have a kill switch like some video game? No one seems to care if or when it’s triggered. Is it possible too many men have seen nothing but broken when it comes to relationships so we’ve evolved into thinking pairing off is simply not normal or worth it?

Yet, why will some men still try to exhibit behavior like wanting to hold your hand? Why do they bother to look deep into your eyes in the heat of being intimate? Is it an awkward bid to experience that human connection that keeps us all from going mad? Once that carnal lust is sated, a lot of us act as if nothing happened. Time goes by and then our desire builds to that fever pitch again.

We reach back out to Scruff, Growl’r or whatev’r and we scroll search to engage again with someone new. It’s like that old saying, “The only way to get over one man is to get under another one!” Hahaha. Yeah, I’m guilty of it, too. Maybe this time I forgot how it feels when they are the ones seeking a one-time connection with no option for renewal?

Ergo, the glass box of emotion.

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Okay, so this is more a rant and less a confession. I guess I let him hit the two buttons that are my hottest ones. Yet, if it wasn’t him, it would have been someone else doing me the honors. You can only take so much of the same bullshit pattern of failure before you decide to raise your voice with the aid of your laptop keys.

Despite my overthought sense of frustration and disappointment, I really don’t fault him for anything. (And if he reads this, I hope he knows I harbor no ill feelings.) In fact, I’m actually glad it happened, this moment, one of many in the unfinished masterpiece that is life. (Thank you, Mr. Nabokov.) What I experienced with him helped me better define the type of gent that could be the catalyst for me connect with in a way that lasts. (I guess I do have a type, after all. He was definitely in that zone. Maybe this means I am getting closer?)

Who knows how many more times I’m going to be walking after midnight on this search? But, sooner or later, that clock is gonna strike with someone in my favor. Right?

Right.

Tuesday, December 2. Written and posted from Wayne Avenue Manor in South Pasadena, CA

Why I’m Not a “Bear” — #nolabels

Why I’m Not a “Bear” — #nolabels

Can I just say it?

I refuse to accept the “Bear” label.

There. What a weight off my broad shoulders.

Girth. Mirth. Cargo Shorts. Cigars. Plaid Shirts. Beards. Bearbies. Str8 Acting. No fats. No femmes.

No, I’m not kidding!

These are real words in a subculture that is no longer an offshoot of all that is “Gay.” It is a powerful brand, one that may also have a role in the homogenization of homosexuality.

Let’s begin with the obvious. Bears, in theory, are not cuddly creatures. They have bad attitudes, sleep a lot and could give a shit about anything except taking a shit in the woods and move on.

And that just applies to the ones out in the wild.

As I wade deeper and deeper into the shallowest dating pool you can ever imagine, how is it that being gay in LA post-40 still requires your being part of a clique.  Do we ever escape the high school model? Plastics. Stoners. Twinks. Daddies. Truckers. Tops. Bottoms. Versatile. Poz. Chubs. Cubs. Otters. Triads. Leather. Open. The global cafeteria is jam-packed with variations of a singular theme. And know there are hierarchies that exist within those categories, too.

I used to think it was a sign of empowerment and progress when you started reading about “gay’ neighborhoods, restaurants, bars, banks and everything in between. The older I get, I am starting to bristle against that distinction. At what point does this polite segregation lose its power? Can’t we all just “be?” Well, that’s a topic for another day. I’m still revving up my rant from the cave thanks to my being assigned to the “Bear” community due to my size and hirsute quality.

As many of my 40-something brethren can attest, it is a bit of a challenge to meet people when you are career obsessed. Which is why so many of us are inclined to engage in the Scruff/Growlr/Mister dating apps. (Grindr is really like Trix, just for kids.) However, when it comes to app or online dating, the level of judgment surpasses that of the Supreme Court or a church bingo club. If you don’t have a profile picture, you don’t exist. Then, you have the “Check Mates,” that group of men who have a laundry list of requirements that often defy reality. I mean, many of us have a “type,” but what is up with the hunt to find prefab versions of an airbrushed stereotype?

For instance:

“I won’t put down the fork or work out, but I will only date muscle-bound gents — or you don’t exist to me.”

“I only want a guy who has tats and/or a beard – or you don’t exist to me.”

“I am “masc for masc” or “neg for neg,” even though you can technically fake both — or you don’t exist to me.”

40-something men only want to date 20-something boys or you don’t exist.

40-something men — we just don’t exist. Period.

We deserve better.

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I am my own man, not a clone, man. Or so my motto goes. I literally just made that up. Does my penchant for wearing foulards, sporting cardigans in 80 degree weather and enjoying shortened pants make me an overgrown hipster? That’s your issue, to be honest. I just like classic things and looking groomed. I see it as taking pride in myself and not being some affected, fey Oscar Wilde trapped in the wrong era.

Our ability to judge as a culture is legendary. I am guilty of eyebrow arching so epic, it possesses a ballet-like poetry.  I am sure that some folks will think I judge the Bear community too harshly. That isn’t my intent. I am very much aware of the group dynamic that is part of being of a community that accepts you. In fact, that desire to create a village is tantamount to being human.

What I am articulating is my frustration in how we all keep each other in easy to digest – and cast off — boxes.  Granted, if we are just talking about hook ups, then yes, desire is mostly a visual thing. As I was once told, “If you don’t want to fuck yourself, why expect anyone else to be interested in you?”

In the cold light of an iPhone screen, that is pretty darn honest. We need to be realistic as to who we are pursuing, too. Yet, is acceptance and tolerance only saved for those soundbite moments when we feel our civil liberties are compromised? Why are we our own worst enemies in the fight for love, life, romance and/or the pursuit of great sex?

I wonder if bears do this to each other out in the wild? I’d like to think they see life as one big, glorious picnic basket of choice. Meanwhile, some of us only care to see each other only for their “baskets.”

What I am starting to understand is that owning your individuality is a pure way to live. In the end, we are destined to find “our people,” a reality built on experience and patience, right? Once we drop the labels and conditions, then we can start appreciating our strengths and stop punishing ourselves — and others — for perceived weaknesses.

Rant over. You see? I’m really just a teddy bear after all.

And I do exist.

Wednesday, October 29. Written and posted from Wayne Avenue Manor, South Pasadena, CA. 

**For a broad tutorial on what it is to be a “Bear,” click on the embedded premiere episode of the web series (not “gay web series”) appropriately titled “Where the Bears Are.” Viewer discretion is advised.