Monday, October 30, 2006

life traps

Not a bad weekend. Got caught up on my sleep, which had been suffering in the last couple of weeks. Got some domestic crap done.

I tried to get back into the self-help book I'm currently reading, Reinventing Your Life. I abandoned it earlier this year when I came to the part that instructed me to write a letter (in my dominant hand) to my wounded inner child, and let my inner child answer back in my non-dominant hand.


I'm finding that to be a bit of a road block. My shrink told me to skip it. I'm inclined to agree, because I think the book's foundations in cognitive therapy are good.

In a future post, I'll describe what life traps the book says I've fallen into!

Friday, October 27, 2006

F is for 4, fantastic, and f*** me gently with a chainsaw!

It's Friday... time for another man from my Top Ten List.

The previous entries (in no particular order) were Eric Bana, Adrian Pasdar, and Paul Rudd. Get your spoons ready... here comes my fourth man, Chris Evans:

Yes, he's pretty in an obvious sort of way. But he's also hella sexy. I was in such a state after seeing Fantastic Four that I thought I was in a pull-through parking spot, and drove into a cement barrier in the movie theatre garage.

Here's another shot, much more rough-and-tumble:


Wednesday, October 25, 2006

hang in there, Dickey!

I'm sure there will be a bullet train to Georgetown in the next decade! You know... unless our governments decide to make more rail lines into parks or trails.

Peter, Jason, and I enjoyed meeting you yesterday evening.

And remember, Dickey... it's your blog, you can kvetch if you want to.

Monday, October 23, 2006

he doesn't look a thing like Jesus

My last two posts were about love and romance. Here's why:

I met someone at the beginning of October. After what I thought was a good first date on the 6th, we made plans for a second date. We talked on the phone, and decided to go for Sunday brunch on the 15th. I called the day before to firm up the plans; he didn't answer. (No, it wasn't a case of me always calling him.)

Sunday came and went. He never called back, or e-mailed. (He still hasn't.)

Boo hoo; big deal. This crap happens to everyone. Be a man; suck it up and move on. You slept with him on the first date. He's seven years younger. You met on a gay hook-up site. You hooked up, and you drove him home the next afternoon. What more were you expecting?

Here's what I was expecting:
  • to have my call returned
  • to go out for a nice brunch, as planned
  • that someone who exhibited prior behaviour that can best be described as "into me" wouldn't suddenly give me the brush-off
So, unless he lost my number, dropped his cell phone into Lake Ontario, and had his computer blow up, he knows how to get in touch. I might not ever find out what happened.

Next time, I should set my expectation level to zero and try not to get ahead of myself. But the problem is, with each schlep through the barnyard of dating, I get more and more shit on myself--and it takes longer for me to clean it off and venture out again. Case in point: in the last year, I have been on two dates.

Meanwhile, the smokin' Brandon Flowers is singin' on the radio:
You sit there in your heartache
Waiting on some beautiful boy to
To save you from your old ways
You play forgiveness
Watch it now
Here he comes
The Killers, "When You Were Young"

At one point during our date, the beautiful boy asked: "why are you still single?"

That is the most loaded of loaded questions. I've been asked it before, so luckily, I had my boilerplate response ready: "Since my relationship with S ended, I've just been 'striking out' a lot." How the hell are you supposed to answer that question? Please discuss.

Thursday, October 19, 2006

in love with being in love

Many years ago, someone told me that I was "in love with being in love." I took issue with that notion. I found it dismissive. It devalued the fact that I was lonely and was hoping to fall in love and shack up. I thought it was like saying "you're in love with being healthy," or "prosperous," or "happy." Duh.

This idea was addressed in a recent Savage Love column. If what this poor guy wrote to Dan about is true, then I think I finally understand what "in love with love" might mean.

I'm curious to know what y'all think.

Sunday, October 15, 2006

the one that got away?

Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.
- George Santayana, The Life of Reason

Many people who know me say that I'm too caught up in ancient history (in the proverbial sense). I trot out the ghost stories from my past and deconstruct them, over and over again.

While I concede that excessive wading into the waters downstream from the bridge can be limiting, I don't think it's unreasonable to stop every once in a while and look back at what has transpired. You are, in large part, a bundle of your past experiences.

In 1994, I moved to Toronto for school. I was finally out of the closet (mostly), in good shape, and feeling really good about the future. I especially enjoyed being 24 and having my "fresh meat" status at the local gay bars. I had just registered for my courses in the week after Labour Day, and when Friday came around, I headed out to Colby's--one of the best gay clubs in the city. There, I met Kevin. He was dark-haired, a few years older, and a really nice guy. I found him attractive (the Irish/Italian mix always did it for me) and we went back to my place. I had only been living there for five days.

Over the next couple of weeks, Kevin and I went out a few more times--including a date to see The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert in the theatre. We also slept together a few more times. I grew bored; I practically chomped at the bit to get out and see what other men awaited me. I continued to go out and pick up, and eventually I stopped being in contact with Kevin.

The man-parade continued all through that fall and winter, fueled by lots of partying and booze. Some of the details are foggy. I can remember a promising start with a Greek guy I met at the gym. How it finished is anyone's guess. One night, I brought home a young Polish guy named Svilen--and came to the next morning as I heard him unbolting my door to leave. My foray into blonde territory happened at a bath house in the early hours of Valentine's Day 1995--surprising how that one didn't work out, despite a few subsequent dates.

There were sometimes two or three men in a week. In my mind, I was young, attractive, and doing--relatively safely--what gay men did. I was the personification of delayed gay adolescence. But it began to wear thin. Like getting hungry an hour after eating cheap Chinese take-out, I started to notice that I was looking forward to the next encounter not long after finally finding my socks on some guy's bedroom floor. I was confident it wasn't a sexual addiction, but I realized I had some growing up to do. So when Kevin got in touch, I began seeing him again.

It didn't last.

To this day, I can't remember how it ended. Was there a lack of chemistry, or was I just not giving him a chance? If I hadn't been so young and stupid--and scared--maybe I'd have ended up in a loving, committed relationship, and maybe I'd have never embarked down another path. Were all the notches on my bedpost worth throwing someone away? What kind of a person is so lacking in self-esteem that they proudly recall the three Woody's bartenders among the notches?

In the latter part of the '90s, I would occasionally run into Kevin's best friend Mark. I would always ask how he was doing. Once, I shared my regret with Mark, and asked him to relay it to Kevin.

The last I heard, Kevin was living in Vancouver with his partner. I truly hope he's happy, and knows how sorry I am for hurting him.

Friday, October 13, 2006

a perennial member of my Top Ten List

Back in March, I promised a posting of my Top Ten List. (Given the recent dearth of posts on this clog, I should consider stretching that list out to ten posts.)

The list has been a fluid thing over the years, but Paul Rudd has been there since I first saw him (along with just about everyone else) in 1995's Clueless. In the spring of 1998, I had to log a weekend of retail therapy to get over seeing Rudd in The Object of My Affection. (He completely destroyed me in that film.) And unlike Rachel Weisz's character in The Shape of Things (2003), I thought Paul Rudd's character was perfect and not in need of a makeover.

So, thanks to Peter's surfing, I bring you the intelligent sensuality of Paul Rudd:

(Lookit the boxers on the floor! I'm done!)

Thursday, October 05, 2006

Rouge and Peter like to keep active

Many thanks to Butchie, mad Photoshop genius.