Life, the Universe, and Everything

 

Do this, exactly: Wake up on your forty-first birthday in 2014 on Thanksgiving, and finally feel happy, feel ready for what’s next. Realize that although there’s a lot you have in common, break up with a very sweet man who you’ve been seeing for a few months. Hunker down and make some fun art, take some silly pictures, spend Christmas in a snowless Portland winter. Spend time with friends, miss your family who you can’t see very often around the holidays because of your day job. Continue reading

How It Ends.

 

The text appears mid-afternoon, when you’re at work: “Hey, can we talk?” You go home in a daze, set your things down, lift the phone to your ear when it rings. He says words, you say words back, hang up. Just like that, it’s done: you woke up this morning in love with a man you’d loved for almost a year, whose family you had met, a man you thought you would have a long future with, and tonight you will go to bed no longer in love with him, you will go to bed alone. This is how things end. Continue reading

“Sour Times”

I was happy to direct this 4-minute short for the Shorty Shorts Film Festival in Portland, but I was even more thrilled to work with this talented, generous cast (credited at the end of the short). Thanks much to Gula Delgatto for including my short, and Donovan Edwards, Ace Hotel Portland, and Pepe Le Moko for donating their resources and locations. Hope you like it!

Dear BLCKSMTH: Bad Advice for Good People

 

First appeared in PQMonthly.

 

Dear BLCKSMTH, how many glasses of red wine can you mix with Xanax?

All of them.

Dear BLCKSMTH, what’s with the no vowels?

It’s a dated holdover from when I thought that was cool a few years ago, and that’s what I called my blog. Keep in mind, this was years after omitting vowels from words was actually cool. It’s a silly and charming affectation, like people who wear suspenders, or glasses without prescription lenses, or vegetarianism.

Hey BLCKSMTH, my boyfriend and I have been together for three years, and have been talking lately about opening our relationship up. What do you think? Continue reading

Love In The Age Of Scruff, Part 3

.ig-b- { display: inline-block; } .ig-b- img { visibility: hidden; } .ig-b-:hover { background-position: 0 -60px; } .ig-b-:active { background-position: 0 -120px; } .ig-b-v-24 { width: 137px; height: 24px; background: url(//badges.instagram.com/static/images/ig-badge-view-sprite-24.png) no-repeat 0 0; } @media only screen and (-webkit-min-device-pixel-ratio: 2), only screen and (min--moz-device-pixel-ratio: 2), only screen and (-o-min-device-pixel-ratio: 2 / 1), only screen and (min-device-pixel-ratio: 2), only screen and (min-resolution: 192dpi), only screen and (min-resolution: 2dppx) { .ig-b-v-24 { background-image: url(//badges.instagram.com/static/images/ig-badge-view-sprite-24@2x.png); background-size: 160px 178px; } }


Instagram

Disclaimer: I don’t consider it particularly noble or funny anymore to post photos of screenshots of private conversations on dating apps. Nevertheless, this series of posts strikes a chord in a lot of people, so I have kept the screenshots in.

You know the old story: boy breaks up with boy. Boy, single, downloads a dating app at the suggestion of his ex. Boy stays single for three years but at least get a lot of writing material out of being single, writes a lot about simultaneously pooping and sexting. Boy meets boy on the app. Boy invites boy to visit, and boys fall in love and start a relationship. Boys discuss deleting app, but then boys do something unexpected: they stay on the app. Continue reading

Electile Dysfunction: The Dating Profiles

.ig-b- { display: inline-block; } .ig-b- img { visibility: hidden; } .ig-b-:hover { background-position: 0 -60px; } .ig-b-:active { background-position: 0 -120px; } .ig-b-v-24 { width: 137px; height: 24px; background: url(//badges.instagram.com/static/images/ig-badge-view-sprite-24.png) no-repeat 0 0; } @media only screen and (-webkit-min-device-pixel-ratio: 2), only screen and (min--moz-device-pixel-ratio: 2), only screen and (-o-min-device-pixel-ratio: 2 / 1), only screen and (min-device-pixel-ratio: 2), only screen and (min-resolution: 192dpi), only screen and (min-resolution: 2dppx) { .ig-b-v-24 { background-image: url(//badges.instagram.com/static/images/ig-badge-view-sprite-24@2x.png); background-size: 160px 178px; } }


Instagram

First published in PQMonthly.

 

FeelTheBern69
537 Miles Away
74 Years Old
5’8″, 162 lbs, Some Hair
I Am Into: Geeks, College, Daddy Chasers
Open To: Friendships, Relationships, Dates, Elizabeth Warren as a running mate

What I’m Looking For: My socks! Haha. Looking for a reason to delete this app. Fiscal Top but social Bottom. Looking for someone to bring home to mom. Intelligence, self-awareness, confidence a must. Currently job hunting/interviewing so may relocate in November of 2016, please be open to relocate too. Like to read, take walks, go to the gym but not lately haha. Sometimes shy until I warm up to people. Want to Netflix and chill? HMU. Tested neg 8/2015 and poz friendly.

Thanks for all the woofs guys, sorry I can’t reply to everyone. Continue reading

Deliver Us

 

Day 1: You’re at your job, and flying out to see your mom in San Antonio the next morning, something that you’re little nervous about. Not because it’s your mom and you have a complicated relationship with her, but because it’s flying during the day. You prefer red-eye flights because a few years ago, flying through the Rockies, you and an airplane full of strangers experienced the worst turbulence you ever had in your collective lives, and after that you refused to board a plane for a few years. You could only go as far as you could drive or take a train, so your traveling circle was pretty myopic. You eventually had to travel for work, so you went to a doctor, described your fear in tangible physiological terms, got prescribed what you now laughingly describe as horse tranquilizers. They were way too powerful for casual travel, so you’ve since downgraded to Xanax, which helps you sleep on red-eye flights, but again, this is different. This will be a daytime flight, you probably won’t be asleep. Ugh. Continue reading

How To Get Your Ass Kicked

 

I’m getting off the A train in Brooklyn around Hoyt, and I look back to see if David is following nearby (he is). He’s wearing a bright teal t-shirt, and I’m wearing my short shorts with a white and blue striped pullover, so naturally we fit in among the sea of navy and black bustling around us. “Why are you walking so fast?” he asks, probably in Italian or German. He’s obsessed with learning and speaking other languages. I’m obsessed with frustrating him to tears by pretending I don’t understand or can’t hear him. “Because New York” I say, and he silently nods his understanding.

I look behind me again to see if the G we’re connecting with stops here or further down the platform. The G’s I’ve been on so far are frustratingly tiny for the amount of riders in this part of Brooklyn, so much so that it’s sometimes just two cars. It wouldn’t surprise me if the MTA reduced service to just a Little Tykes train that holds a few toddlers, running over the rats along its route with its plastic tires. Ok, yes, the G stops further down. I start to turn around when I notice a guy in a pristine white t-shirt and basketball shorts gesturing at me. I think at me? I’m not sure. Until he shouts “Yeah, you!” Continue reading

Fight Or Flight, Part 2

 

Part Two of Three. Read Part One here. First published in PQMonthly.

When I woke up that morning, getting into a physical altercation with a bigot was the last thing I thought I would be doing. I had been minding my own business, puttering around my house, when the word “faggot” came through my open windows on that hot day. It was barked in a harsh male baritone in the context of a conversation, and then it was repeated again. It had startled me so much to hear that ugly word in my own space, in the last place I would expect to hear that word of hate, that I had spontaneously stood up from a sitting position in the middle of my living room. I stood there for a minute, let the feelings wash over me. Continue reading

An Open Letter To My Enemy

 

Dear ___________,

Good morning! Long time no see. It still seems surreal, doesn’t it? Just one week ago, the SCOTUS ruled in favor of gay marriage. A lot of my friends have been celebrating, and even if there’s still a long way to go (like securing rights for trans persons, and the sinking realization that we’re seeking validation from an archaic, broken, systemically racist system…awkward!), it was a monumental day. Of course there’s my more cynical side that reared up and equated the rampant “rainbowing” of people’s profile pictures to a kind of armchair activism (if you care that much about it, where were you when we were marching in the streets for equality? for that matter, where was I?). But all in all it was a good thing. Progress.

I have a confession to make: I forgot we were still connected on social media! It’s been so long since we met, was it that we went to school together? Did we work at a former job together? In any case, the kind Facebook algorithms had hidden you from my feed; we probably didn’t have much in common, and we probably didn’t “like” anything from each other for awhile. I was reminded yesterday in the most jarring way, though: you posted something full of ugliness and hate, or a link to an ignorant article, or that creepy video where “Christians” (acting unChristianly) talk about feeling persecuted by gays gaining their rights. Continue reading

Laugh In My Face

 

I’m usually super dead inside, but I was thrilled when Hello Mr magazine and the Ace Hotel in Portland invited me to tell the tale of my worst date ever. It’ll be this Sunday, June 14th, 5 to 8pm at the Ace. There will be a DJ! There will be cocktails! There will be an opportunity to heckle me, laugh in my dumb, dumb face! There may never be a better chance to mock me before my slow, sad fade into obscurity. See you there! (Click here for event details)

Fight Or Flight

.ig-b- { display: inline-block; } .ig-b- img { visibility: hidden; } .ig-b-:hover { background-position: 0 -60px; } .ig-b-:active { background-position: 0 -120px; } .ig-b-v-24 { width: 137px; height: 24px; background: url(//badges.instagram.com/static/images/ig-badge-view-sprite-24.png) no-repeat 0 0; } @media only screen and (-webkit-min-device-pixel-ratio: 2), only screen and (min--moz-device-pixel-ratio: 2), only screen and (-o-min-device-pixel-ratio: 2 / 1), only screen and (min-device-pixel-ratio: 2), only screen and (min-resolution: 192dpi), only screen and (min-resolution: 2dppx) { .ig-b-v-24 { background-image: url(//badges.instagram.com/static/images/ig-badge-view-sprite-24@2x.png); background-size: 160px 178px; } }


Instagram

First published in PQMonthly.

It was a long drive back to Portland that morning; I hit traffic at Tacoma and Olympia, so I was already tired. I had been in Seattle for a few days, and spent more time downtown than I had in past visits (when you’re in love, even the downtown urine smells sweeter). And I’m sorry, but when I travel it’s like I don’t even know my own poops anymore. So yeah, I was in a strange headspace.

It was a warm day, and I had opened the windows in my apartment to get some breeze going. I made a sandwich, settled down at my desk (actually my couch…I didn’t want to admit eating on the sofa) and got ready to catch up on emails. That’s when I heard him from the sidewalk outside, just below my window. There’s a convalescent facility in my neighborhood, and often one or two of the residents would cross the street to rest under the big trees surrounding my apartment building. I’d chatted with a couple of them, they would almost always be friendly and chatty. This voice? I recognized his booming baritone; he had been in front of my building before.

The murmur of his voice outside was suddenly punctuated with words that rose out of the background noise of his speech in sharp relief: “…yeah, and all the faggots and child molesters moving into the neighborhood…”

My hand froze, holding the sandwich halfway to my mouth. My breath caught, I could suddenly hear my heartbeat in my ears, and my eyes widened. “…The fuck did I just hear…?” I thought. I shook my head, slowly lowered the sandwich. Then again: “…yeah and the faggots are all over the place…” Without thinking, I pushed off the couch and stood up, startling my cat off the sofa. Is this what fight or flight feels like? I wondered.

I was born in the Bay Area and my family moved to Albuquerque, New Mexico when I was five. Although no one in my family ever disparaged gay people, my dad was the son of a Lutheran minister, and my mom and grandma came from a Latino Catholic background: I had good reasons to stay in the closet. I don’t remember my first ever thoughts of being gay, but I do remember making my same-gendered stuffed animals kiss each other. A bit later in high school, I had a best friend Helen who was brassy and outspoken. I eventually came out to her after my junior year. In my senior year, I had a massive crush on Mark, a freshman (some things, it seems, follow a pattern). I passed many, many notes to Helen detailing my infatuation with him in the form of poetry and prose.

One day, Helen ran up to me breathless. It was a disaster: Mark and his friend were riding the bus with Helen, who was dutifully reading yet another note of mine. They decided they wanted to read the note, and grabbed it out of her hands. Knowing that she was the only person in my life I was “out” to, she heroically fought and grabbed the note back. When they persisted, however, she made a last-ditch desperate attempt to safeguard my secret, and threw the note out of the window of the moving bus. What she didn’t count on was Mark and his friend’s curiosity, and they got off at the next stop, ran back, and found and read the note.

When Helen told me this, my teenage chest tightened, every pore in my body closed, and my vision blurred. And now more than 20 years later I felt this again, listening to the voice outside my window.

“He’s not worth it”, that other guy had said, so many years ago. After high school I stayed in town, went to the University of Near Mom New Mexico and pursued a theater arts degree. It was here that I finally came out to my friends and family, and even though being gay in the early 90’s was easier than decades before, it was still Albuquerque. I found this out one night as some friends and I ate our weight in Moons Over My Hammy at Denny’s, a greasy-spoon near the school. I wore my Freedom Rings proudly around my neck, coordinating with my solid cobalt-blue flannel shirt (did I mention it was the 90’s?).

Our meal was interrupted in much the same way that my current sandwich was. Two guys at a table nearby, older and bigger than us, noticed my rings and started talking loudly: “What are you looking at, faggot?” “Stop looking at me, faggot!” My friends and I stopped eating, looked at each other with wide eyes, silent and still. Maybe we collectively thought that they would leave us alone if we played possum. Maybe homophobes’ vision is motion-based, like a T-Rex.

No such luck: they strutted up to the table, and the main aggressor repeated what he said before directly to me. His friend got uncomfortable, though: “He’s not worth it”, and pushed his angry friend away from the table, out the door.

It was that, that same feeling, that I was feeling now. Sure, I’d heard that word plenty before, but usually in public, and mostly in a way that I could walk away from. But here? In my own home? I couldn’t stand for this. Could I?

I couldn’t. I’d be damned if I let someone say that word in a place I was supposed to feel safe. I haven’t been in a lot of fights, but I know how to get ready for one. I took my glasses off, took my watch off. I got my phone ready in case I needed to record anything.

I opened my door and walked toward him.

Continued in Part Two.

 

 

If you liked this, you’re possibly broken forever! Read about my drunken tips for decorating, or listen to the dreadful music I like, or even about my dumb thoughts on monogamy. Let’s be horrible people together!

How It Happens

 

First published, in abbreviated form, in PQMonthly.

This is how it happens, and in retrospect it couldn’t happen any other way. You look at the dating app Scruff one day, having been single for three years, single at 41. All of these faces scrolling by. Some familiar ones occasionally post new photos, where maybe they have a little more grey, or they’ve lost or gained weight. Maybe they look a little more tired from the search, a little more cynical. Maybe they’re almost ready to press “delete” and just leave meeting people to fate and natural circumstances. Their faces say they’re ready to just trash every dating app and get on with living life, spending more time with their friends, creating more art. Maybe their weary faces say they’re a little scared that they’ve already experienced all the love they’re ever going to.

Or maybe that’s just me, you think. You open up a dating app, yeah that one, see a handsome bearded face. He has a boyfriend, because of course he does, and they’re exclusive. You chat a bit, and he won’t even flirt with you because he’s taken. He makes an impression on you but the conversation fades away after a few days.

All of a sudden, months later, Continue reading

Swoon

 

.ig-b- { display: inline-block; } .ig-b- img { visibility: hidden; } .ig-b-:hover { background-position: 0 -60px; } .ig-b-:active { background-position: 0 -120px; } .ig-b-v-24 { width: 137px; height: 24px; background: url(//badges.instagram.com/static/images/ig-badge-view-sprite-24.png) no-repeat 0 0; } @media only screen and (-webkit-min-device-pixel-ratio: 2), only screen and (min--moz-device-pixel-ratio: 2), only screen and (-o-min-device-pixel-ratio: 2 / 1), only screen and (min-device-pixel-ratio: 2), only screen and (min-resolution: 192dpi), only screen and (min-resolution: 2dppx) { .ig-b-v-24 { background-image: url(//badges.instagram.com/static/images/ig-badge-view-sprite-24@2x.png); background-size: 160px 178px; } }


Instagram

I was invited to give a 10 minute talk on the evolution of courtship rituals, both traditional and modern, for the JAKETalks in Seattle, on February 21st of this year. The following is a rough transcript of the talk, and the video is also below.

(Looks around at crowd) You are all less than 250 feet away from me. Haha, Scruff jokes.

I’m Michael James Schneider. I’m a writer for PQ Monthly and I write for my own wildly unpopular and awkwardly named blog. I write about a few topics, but lately I’ve been writing a lot about dating apps. In fact, so much so that people have started calling me The Scruff Whisperer. “Pause for laugh.”

In the fall of 2012, I found myself single and almost 40. I downloaded the Scruff app at the insistence of my ex. Now, I’ve been single for almost three years, I think I’ve become a professional spinster. I’ve taken the Buzzfeed “Which classic Dickens character are you?” quiz many times, change the answers I give, but I get Ms Havisham every time. Jokes.

To give you a little bit of background, what is this Scruff thing? A Scruff is a guy thinks he’s fly, also know as a buster. Wait no, it’s a dating app for bearded guys who want more Instagram followers. Wait no, it’s a location based mobile phone application that shows you a grid of available men who tend to skew to the hirsute end of the spectrum. Notice I said “available”, not necessarily “single”. I’m looking for something monogamous and long term. Not everyone is. Some guys are on there looking for friends and “workout buddies.” Me? I’m Alanis Morrisette looking for her next Dave Coulier. Continue reading

Lemonade

As with most mornings on my days off, it’s a slow roll to wake up this particular morning. I sleepily smile at the text from my boyfriend, reply to it. I pet my perpetually hungry cat, Ned. I browse Facebook for a couple minutes, watch the new Star Wars trailer, realize that Darth Vader’s helmet kinda always looks like the “gritted teeth” emoji. A friend on Facebook has lost a loved one, and I almost comment on the post but decide not to. I’m sorry for your loss, but I’m even sorrier for all the notifications I’ll get if I comment on your post.

Then I check the dashboard for my shitty-ass blog. Oh great, I think, rolling my eyes, Chad’s back.

I started this blog a few years ago to chronicle my experience leaving my job for a year to have an “artistic sabbatical”. Halfway through that year, I had a rough time of it and suddenly the writing got more personal. I knew then that I was making a choice to put my ramblings out into the public domain, and I also knew well enough from Reddit message boards that not everyone would be kind. Take the above comment, posted at 1:04 am to my recent piece about transparency and honesty. Chad’s clearly trying to bring “tool” back. The overall message in my piece wasn’t very controversial, just an affirmation that it’s better to be open than not. But Chad’s had it in for me for awhile: Continue reading

See Right Through You: The Case For Transparency

 

First published in PQMonthly

Walking down Broadway, I shuffled along, staring at the sidewalk and musing on the possible titles of my inevitable, boring memoir: “My Cat Is The Handsomest: Thoughts On Dying Alone By Michael James Schneider.” “Sir, You Can’t Take A Bottle Of Lube That Large On An Airplane, A Long-Distance Love Story By Michael James Schneider”. “What It Looks Like When The Universe Poops On Your Life: How To Get It All Wrong, by Michael James Schneider”. I looked up just in time to realize that A) I was at a bottleneck in the sidewalk, between a cafe table and a tree, and B) a guy who was Dreamy As Fuck was also trying to get through the narrow path from the other side.

I stopped, made an embarrassed gesture to let him through. He, however, did the same. No, no, my next gesture said, my hand sweeping magnanimously, Please, after you, I insist. And there we stood for a good 20 minutes, each trying to be the Beta dog in this classic West Coast Standoff of politeness, each trying not to bare our teeth or make eye contact lest the other one attack.

On the surface, the PNW is a friendly, polite place to live. What happens when you look under that surface, though? Is politeness a form of dishonesty and artifice, and if so, what does it take to live a transparent life? Continue reading

Björk at MÖMA: A (Fake?) Review

 

Once in a great while, an artist comes along who pushes boundaries, gives viewers opportunities to rethink their paradigms, and creates bold, brave art that’s sometimes not fully appreciated in its time. Occasionally, that artist is honored with a retrospective, and given a chance to participate, bringing their beautiful creations to a larger, more mainstream audience. That artist was Marina Abramovic.

But now, we have been graced with the Björk retrospective at the Museum Of Modern Art. This quirky singer, originally the lead singer of The Pixies The Treaclies The Sugarcubes, debuted her solo album in 1993. It was called Debut. She’s known for her unconventional style and eclectic production design of her music videos. She’s also known by basics-at-large mostly for wearing a dress that looks like a swan to the Academy Awards in 2001 (seriously, people can’t let that go). I visited New York last month in balmy February, and was given early access to what is by all accounts definitely a retrospective. Continue reading

Cheat Code: Leveling Up on Dating Apps

 

First appeared in PQMonthly

There he is, that writer, on his day off from his day job. Tall, lanky as fuck, wandering from room to room in his apartment in NE Portland with a coffee cup in hand. He stops to pet his cat, then checks his phone. A notification from Tinder, a dating app for boring people. A new match! His thumb hovers above the screen of his mint-condition iPhone 3GS. “What is happening here?” he thinks. Ignores the notification. Life goes on.

A day later, he’s on Scruff, a dating app for guys who want more Instagram followers. A few guys “woof” at him, he gets on the Global View front page, he feels good about himself. Then he wonders why, what kind of validation he’s getting from this. Continue reading

Swipe Left

"Workout Buddies" (screencap by Shawn Jackson) .ig-b- { display: inline-block; } .ig-b- img { visibility: hidden; } .ig-b-:hover { background-position: 0 -60px; } .ig-b-:active { background-position: 0 -120px; } .ig-b-v-24 { width: 137px; height: 24px; background: url(//badges.instagram.com/static/images/ig-badge-view-sprite-24.png) no-repeat 0 0; } @media only screen and (-webkit-min-device-pixel-ratio: 2), only screen and (min--moz-device-pixel-ratio: 2), only screen and (-o-min-device-pixel-ratio: 2 / 1), only screen and (min-device-pixel-ratio: 2), only screen and (min-resolution: 192dpi), only screen and (min-resolution: 2dppx) { .ig-b-v-24 { background-image: url(//badges.instagram.com/static/images/ig-badge-view-sprite-24@2x.png); background-size: 160px 178px; } }

“Workout Buddies” (screencap by Shawn Jackson)
Instagram

I was interviewed by Reggie Aqui at KGW, the local NBC affiliate here in Portland, about dating apps. I managed to make Scruff sound almost respectable! To see the full video, click this link. UGH WHY IS IT NOT EMBEDDABLE.

Faraway, So Close

 

First appeared, in edited form, in PQ Monthly.

Outline for a piece about long-distance courtship.

Told in third person. Main person is Mike, hopeless romantic, late 30s to early 40s, been in long-term relationships most of his life. Been insulated from realities of dating and being single until two years ago, he calls the phenomena of feeling like a fish out of water the “Single Gay Time Traveler” effect.

He reluctantly gets on a hookup app (that he charmingly calls a “dating app”). Which one? Should it be Grindr, or Growlr, or Scruff? Let’s make it Scruff. For a while it’s a secret, he won’t tell his friends about being on the app. He’s also kind of judgey when confronted with “sluttiness” and explicit pics (this could be a character arc for Mike, going from a place of almost prudishness, to eventually embracing his sexuality). Continue reading

Holiday Break

#yesallSantas (from l. to r. Michael James Schneider, Santa Claus) .ig-b- { display: inline-block; } .ig-b- img { visibility: hidden; } .ig-b-:hover { background-position: 0 -60px; } .ig-b-:active { background-position: 0 -120px; } .ig-b-v-24 { width: 137px; height: 24px; background: url(//badges.instagram.com/static/images/ig-badge-view-sprite-24.png) no-repeat 0 0; } @media only screen and (-webkit-min-device-pixel-ratio: 2), only screen and (min--moz-device-pixel-ratio: 2), only screen and (-o-min-device-pixel-ratio: 2 / 1), only screen and (min-device-pixel-ratio: 2), only screen and (min-resolution: 192dpi), only screen and (min-resolution: 2dppx) { .ig-b-v-24 { background-image: url(//badges.instagram.com/static/images/ig-badge-view-sprite-24@2x.png); background-size: 160px 178px; } }

#yesallSantas (from l. to r. Michael James Schneider, Santa Claus)
Instagram

It’s been a banner year for the BLCKSMTH blog. As usual, I’ve taken December off, but there are some awesome things in store coming up very soon. Thanks as always for reading, and Happy Damn New Year!

1973

 

This is how it happens: you turn 40, in the fall of 2013. You write a cute post about turning 40, about hitting parked cars and falling down for no reason. It’s funny, but inside you’re actually still a little sad. You realize the earth is spinning through the same space it was a year earlier and it’s the exact time of year he told you no. You still think about him sometimes, but then you realize that he probably doesn’t think about you since the three manifesto-length texts you sent him probably forever sealed in his mind that you’re a creeper. You thought your 40th birthday would be a blowout, but it’s the opposite: friends can’t travel around Thanksgiving except to their families, the timing is off. You have a quiet drink with a friend at a bar you now don’t even remember. You realize you’re in for a long winter, or what you later call “Olive Garden’s Endless Heartbreak.” Continue reading

The Crab-Free Diet

.ig-b- { display: inline-block; } .ig-b- img { visibility: hidden; } .ig-b-:hover { background-position: 0 -60px; } .ig-b-:active { background-position: 0 -120px; } .ig-b-v-24 { width: 137px; height: 24px; background: url(//badges.instagram.com/static/images/ig-badge-view-sprite-24.png) no-repeat 0 0; } @media only screen and (-webkit-min-device-pixel-ratio: 2), only screen and (min--moz-device-pixel-ratio: 2), only screen and (-o-min-device-pixel-ratio: 2 / 1), only screen and (min-device-pixel-ratio: 2), only screen and (min-resolution: 192dpi), only screen and (min-resolution: 2dppx) { .ig-b-v-24 { background-image: url(//badges.instagram.com/static/images/ig-badge-view-sprite-24@2x.png); background-size: 160px 178px; } }


Instagram

First published in PQMonthly.

He stands there in my doorway, not coming in. His hand is holding his bike up that he rode over on, also halfway through the threshold. Carl mutters something, small talk: “Hey. How did you sleep last night?”

“Like a log,” I say, and then add “A drunk, crying log.” He doesn’t react, he just looks down at his feet. “Come all the way in, will you?” I ask, now annoyed. Everything’s been going great with Carl, we’ve been dating a couple of months now, so this is about the time for something to get completely and irrevocably fucked up. I look at my watch: yup, it’s Breakup O’Clock! Continue reading

The 30-Day Dating Cleanse

"App Soup", photo by Jeff Howard, digital by Tucker Cullinan .ig-b- { display: inline-block; } .ig-b- img { visibility: hidden; } .ig-b-:hover { background-position: 0 -60px; } .ig-b-:active { background-position: 0 -120px; } .ig-b-v-24 { width: 137px; height: 24px; background: url(//badges.instagram.com/static/images/ig-badge-view-sprite-24.png) no-repeat 0 0; } @media only screen and (-webkit-min-device-pixel-ratio: 2), only screen and (min--moz-device-pixel-ratio: 2), only screen and (-o-min-device-pixel-ratio: 2 / 1), only screen and (min-device-pixel-ratio: 2), only screen and (min-resolution: 192dpi), only screen and (min-resolution: 2dppx) { .ig-b-v-24 { background-image: url(//badges.instagram.com/static/images/ig-badge-view-sprite-24@2x.png); background-size: 160px 178px; } }

“App Soup”, photo by Jeff Howard, digital by Tucker Cullinan
Instagram

Inevitably, the text came a couple of days after the second date, like it seems to a lot lately: “Sorry, just no sparks. Let’s be friends!” This one smarted a bit. Handsome, great tech job that he was good at, seemed a bit old-fashioned, and we didn’t meet on an app. On the one hand, I loved the honesty, but on the other hand, it was maybe just one too many rejections in too short a time, and this was a guy I was crossing my fingers for.

Time to take a break, I thought, so I did what any self-respecting single person would do: I went on a cleanse. A 30-day dating cleanse. Since I was inventing it as I went along, what were the ground rules? Okay, #1: No sex. Duh. #2: Nothing “datey”, no dinners or meals. Not even going to have a drink or beers. #3: Yes, I can use apps to say hello and chat, but no dates goddamnit.

Day 1. Hey, this isn’t too bad. I’m busy with my day job, and I have a writing deadline to make, so I can concentrate on that. Famous last words!

Day 2. Oh. Hey. Holy crap, a hot paramedic on Sruff who’s into sci-fi movies. Dave Eggers is his favorite author and he describes his beard as “post-ironic”. He has really nice legs. Okay, just one date? Continue reading