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 Those “sweet symbols”of yore have been replaced by emojis and the art of flirting has given way to acts of narcissism, sexting, pexting and a strange paranoia that everyone is going to stalk you if you dare to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?”

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:

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.

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.

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.

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.