Why the Universe Is Frustrated With Me

© Jon Brock - 2013

I've slowly but surely weened myself off the terrible narcotic that is "online dating." No more OkCupid (too scientific); no more Adam4Adam (too nasty); no more Grindr (too stale); no more Craigslist (too...um, yeah). It's over! See ya! Later! Goodbye! (Although, I'm sure that I'll relapse at some point. It happens. I'm only human.) Without being "plugged in," so to speak, I'm left with (really) only one option: organic, face-to-face, human interaction.

Oh no! Run for the hills! Isn't there an app for all of this?! Get my phone! No! No! No!

It's throwback time, bitches! Time to go back to the days of generations past; the days when if you thought someone was cute, or funny, or desirable in some way, shape, or form, then you fucking approached the person and engaged him/her in a conversation. None of this "Looking?" or "Sup" bullshit. Whatever I may be looking for, I guarantee you that you're not going to satisfy that search with a shirtless photo of yourself, followed up by a photo of your cock and/or ass. Sure, I'll jerk off to it, but I could have easily done that without your (typically) unsolicited "explicitives." (Yes, I just made up a new term. Tell your friends.)

Right...where was I? Oh, yes: human interaction, and why the universe is frustrated with me. Now that I must resort to meeting people out in the real world, I've been putting my social skills to the test. The odds are forever against me, as I'm both shy and extremely introverted. Despite those menacing truths, one can only get better at socializing with each subsequent interaction. (That's what they call conventional wisdom.) Anyway, let's fast forward a bit...

The last guy that I was dating--we'll call him X--was playing host to his three friends from San Diego last weekend. It was nothing out of the ordinary; people have friends that visit all the time. But my sister (who lives in Los Angeles) was also in town that weekend for a work conference. As I do with all new visitors to this great city, I got a car and drove her straight to the top of Twin Peaks. You can see the entire city from that vantage point. That was something that I had done with X on a previous occasion. Naturally, I was surprised when, soon after arriving at our destination, I noticed X pull up with his three friends. We huddled up--it was cold and windy up there--and went through our introductions. As it turned out, X's three friends were attending the same conference as my sister. And they had even been to some of the same conferences in the past, but were not made aware of such until that moment.

So, here was this guy, X, whom I had much more connection to than I had previously known, and I couldn't help but think that the universe was just fucking with me. "(Finally), here's a good guy for you. And he's connected to you in these different, and good, ways. Go for it!" Maybe it all appears tenuous, but maybe it isn't so. Moving forward.

I needed my fix before work yesterday, so I went to Philz Coffee in the Castro. I placed my order and then went to pay for it, where a guy that was totally my type--can you guess that one?--rang me up. After giving him my debit card, this conversation occurred:

"You must be from Washington?"
"How would you have guessed that?"
"Because your card is from [credit union]."
"Oh, right!"
"I'm actually from there. A little town called 'Kent.'"
"No shit! I'm from Kent!"

And from there we proceeded to chat about where we specifically lived and went to school. It turns out that he lived just a few miles south of where I lived. So, again, what are the odds of me crossing paths with someone that was super cute and nice, grew up in the same damn town as me, and just happens to be gay and living in the same city as me now? These all can't be coincidences, can they? The problem was that I failed to act on an oft -late impulse to attempt to engage the other person again. I didn't say, "Hey, if you'd ever like to get together sometime and talk about growing up in Kent, give me a call," and then give him my number. Nope. Instead I did what I have always done: get awkward and run for the nearest emergency exit.

That was the universe, again, attempting to push me down the right path. But I fucked that one up, too. The moment in which it could have been completely organic, and not planned or contrived, has passed, and all because I failed to do what people did before the internet and smartphones. But failure isn't forever. One of these days I will stop missing all the pins that the universe sets up for me, and I'll finally get a strike.

158 Days Later; Or, Part II

Twin Peaks and Sutro Tower (As Seen From Noe Valley)

Where was I? Oh yes, I traveled to San Francisco twice in 2011. I had a blast each time. Don't even get me started on how Cinco de Mayo went down. I don't think that I will ever top that night. Memories! Speaking of topping that night ...err... never mind. I digress. You know how people always share with everyone that they're going to move to (or live in) _____________ someday? Well, I started to tell people that I wanted to live in San Francisco someday. Did I have any plans to do it anytime soon? No. Most of the time people just say that they're going to move, and then they never do. They get comfortable; the risk can be too much for them. It's understandable.

I soon realized that my life was in decent enough order to put my words into action. I mean, why wait? In fact, what would I be waiting for, exactly, before I decided to move anywhere outside of Seattle? Fear of the unknown would be the major element holding me back. As I told several people, "if you wait for everything to be perfect, then it'll never happen." And it's true. I would still be in Seattle if I had decided to wait until I had a huge chunk of money saved, and until I secured a job and a place to stay. But that's not to say that I didn't have a plan.

My timing (with quitting) was perfect; the bookstore that I worked at for nearly three years was just beginning the process of hiring seasonal gift wrappers. I emailed the manager and inquired if I could apply. She sent me the available shifts, and I signed up for Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. The job didn't start until the day after Thanksgiving, and it went all the way through Christmas Eve. That extra money would definitely help me out. Of course, at that time I didn't yet know that I was going to move to San Francisco. I was merely covering my ass with bill payments and rent until I found that replacement job (that would never come to fruition). I would be valeting five days out of the week, and gift wrapping three days out of the week. As I recall, I only ever had one day off during the week, if that.

I was able to put away a good amount of cash during those four weeks. A few days prior to my last day at the bookstore, my manager approached me and asked if I would like to come back and back fill a bookseller position while one of his employees was out on medical leave. Honestly, he beat me to the punch, as I was going to ask him if I could stay on and help out wherever needed.

And that was my life for the next four months. The first week of January I started working at the bookstore as a bookseller on Sundays, Mondays, and Tuesdays; I valeted Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays.

In an effort to cut costs as much as possible, I asked one of my fellow office coworkers if I could move into the spare bedroom that she and her girlfriend had in Queen Anne. They acquiesced, and I was supposed to move in at the end of January. However, I managed to talk one of my good friends into letting me stay at her place in Northgate. You really can't do any better than free. Although, there were some conditions: I would surrender my furniture, and agree not to cash out my IRA. (She cares about my financial future.) We definitely made some great memories in the three months that I lived there.

To be continued...

156 Days Later

Pink Apartments in the Mission

"I've realized that Seattle has nothing more to offer me. It's been fun. Time to move on. I'm thinking...Bay Area." I posted that on Facebook on December 16, 2011 at 5:19 p.m. Three days later I purchased my plane ticket to San Francisco and never looked back. In the 156 days since I first declared that I intended to move away from Seattle so much has happend.

Let's start at the beginning...

For 19 months I worked in an office that was populated by fucking idiots and kiss-asses; the CEO was an asshole; the wages were unfair. In the beginning of November, days before our annual performance reviews (the time when we're typically supposed to get raises), the decision came down to lay off 30 people (seven percent of the company's workforce). According to several seasoned employees this was in order to prevent people from getting raises and weed out the people that weren't doing the company any favors (financially). This came the week after I was spending significant amounts of time merely sitting at my desk weighing the pros and cons of simply getting up and walking out on that piece-of-shit job.

Our floor manager got us all together and informed us of the news. "If you're at this meeting, then you still have your job. It sucks (having this dark cloud over us), I know, but let's just get back to work, people." It's really fucking difficult watching a grown-man cry in front of his employees. (Note: this was the only manager that I could tolerate; he was one of the only reasons why I managed to stay there as long as I did.) We all went back to our desks and commenced in the obligatory gossip: "Who got canned?" "Why do you think s/he did?" You get the point. I went to my desk and decided that I wasn't going to keep working. Instead, I decided to make the decision about whether or not I wanted to work for a company that engaged in all of this bullshit. You have to stand up for yourself at some point, right?

I put in my headphones and found a song for inspiration: "Paradise" by Coldplay--don't judge--blaring it until I nearly went deaf. Now trembling with anxiety, I got up from my desk and walked into my manager's office and asked to speak with him. "Not another one," he said. As clearly and coherently as I could, holding back my emotions, I explained to him how I felt and what I was doing:

"I'm done. November 14 is my last day."
"Can I ask why?"
"Honestly...I fucking hate it here..."
"Okay."
"I have nothing against you. You've been a great boss, and I'm sorry if I've been difficult at times. But I fucking hate how this company is run, and the people upstairs can go fuck themselves. I'm not working here anymore after the fourteenth."

I shook his hand and proceeded to make my rounds around the office letting people know the news. (As a side note, a handful of other people quickly followed suit and quit.)

Did I have another job lined up? No. What I did have, however, was a part-time job that I could easily convert into a full-time job, as well as a chunk of money saved from said job. I started valeting on Fridays and Saturdays back in mid-August in order to pay down debt faster and just to have some money saved in the bank; living paycheck to paycheck is a real bitch. My original plan was to utilize my valet income and savings to stay afloat long enough to find a new full-time job. What really happened was that I became lazy and applied for maybe three or four jobs max. I interviewed for one, but I didn't get it. In hindsight, I'm glad that I didn't; if I had, then I would probably still be miserable, and the rest of this story would not have come to pass.

I was in a rut. I needed something new, or else I was just going to perpetually take on the same shitty office job that pays the bills again and again ad infinitum.

Earlier in the year I made two trips down to San Francisco: once in May for both a vacation and a good friend's wedding, and again at the end of July to run in the city's marathon. I wish I could explain what drew me to the city, but I can't. I was just drawn to it. It was different and exciting. Perhaps I could have wound up in a different city if I had traveled elsewhere (Chicago, New York City, Boston, Portland: major cities).

To be continued...

I Survived Two Weeks of Cat Wrath

Even though the two devil cats, Ollie and Ellie, annoyed the shit out of me, I enjoyed the company. My two friends returned from their vacation in Egypt this morning, and now I'm back to my humble abode. I'm glad I washed all the dishes before I slipped away for two weeks. Now I just need to clean up the rest of the apartment. Give it time.

I've been keeping myself busy with work and hanging out with my friends. Now that I have the same 'weekend' as most of them, we see each other more often. That being said, I couldn't tell you how many hours we've clocked playing Rock Band 2 in the past month. I think we should start filming our band's performances. Shredders of Dignity on YouTube. It may soon become a reality. Oh, and yes, our band name is (The) Shredders of Dignity. It's a long and esoteric story. Don't ask. It's kind of our own thing.

You may be wondering what that note (in the picture) is supposed to mean, besides the obvious. Well, it's my reminder at work to stay on top of everything, but at the same time, to not get ahead of myself and make (too many) errors. So far, it's working. (Un)fortunately, I've been taking my new job very seriously, but I'm hoping that it will all pay off down the road. Let's hope so. It's never a bad thing to be good at your job, right?

Sadly, I have been completely out of the loop with all the news that is happening in the world. I need to start spending my time after work reading the blogs and newspapers. As a result, my own blog--snooze fest--has been dormant for a while. I just need some inspiration, and I hope it's coming soon.

There Really Are Some Things That Cannot Be Explained

About a month ago, I noticed a journal in our lost-and-found at work. It had been sitting there for quite some time, and I decided to give it a glance. It sounds invasive, but I felt an inexplicable connection to its content. There's nothing special about it. It was written by a guy who was clearly down on his luck, but remained hopeful. The biggest mindfuck for me came when I noticed the drawing on the lower half of one page. (See image.) As the title of this post suggests, I cannot explain the following: I undoubtedly believe that I drew that picture. I may not have drawn it in that book, but I remember drawing it. It even looks like my handwriting/drawing.

How do you explain that?

In fact, even now, as I look over this page and its words and images, I shudder. It terrifies me. I live for answers. This is what the rest of the page says:

"Dreams and images bombard me (last night & this morning). Things un from the deep are migrating to the surface."

"I am beginning to believe that the world is extremely simple and straight-forward. This may be because I can't figure out anything, or that there is nothing (to figure out)."

I think I may have stumbled upon one of the biggest mysteries in my life. There is so much in the journal, and it is more than just words on paper.

Short Story: A Hot Night in the City

It was the hottest day that the city had known. 103 degrees. People were doing anything they could to stay cool. In the gay part of town, slim, sexy men strutted about the beach and basked in the bright and shining sunlight. I, on the other hand, did not. I was never comfortable with my body; you'd see me wearing a t-shirt if anyone ever persuaded me to get into the water. Not this time. I volunteered to watch everyone's belongings while they cooled off in the lake.

"He's cute," I would tell myself, as I looked across the way.

There were several cute guys there that day, and I couldn't force myself to believe that I could ever speak to any of them. I proved myself right. It wasn't that difficult, either. The heat was beginning to drive me insane. I couldn't exactly move all of their stuff into a different area of the park. Nearly every square inch of ground was occupied. Thankfully, I liberally applied sunscreen to my face, neck, arms, and legs. I never got a single burn.

My anxiety was getting the best of me. Luckily, my friend returned and relieved me of my duty. I informed him I was leaving, much to his dismay. The wait for the bus was anything but exciting. I became a captive audience to a woman, clearly drunk and consumed by the heat waves. My friend and his boyfriend were leaving, and I managed to excuse myself from the woman's meanderings, and catch a ride with them. The air conditioning never felt so good.

I arrived home, fatigued. I needed a nap. A few hours passed when I received a phone call. This person was not in my phone's address book, but I somewhat recognized the number. I've avoided him for the past several months. I thought I was doing him a favor by disappearing from his life. I increasingly questioned our friendship, and what it really meant to him. At the time, he had only contacted me once, and that was to ask how I was doing. I let the call go to voicemail. Would he leave me a message or not?

The phone made its sound, indicative of having received a voicemail. He had. I listened to it. "Hey JB. . It's me. I was just seeing if maybe you wanted to go see a movie or something. Get out of this heat for a bit. They have A/C." I now had two choices: call him back, or ignore him. Five minutes later, I called him back. It felt so good to hear his voice again. I missed him so much, but it was for my own good to have removed myself from his life. We agreed to meet up ten minutes later on a street corner equidistant from both our apartments.

On the walk over, I listened to "Crashin'" by Jack's Mannequin. That song would be ingrained in my mind, forever, as the night our friendship rekindled. I waited longer than expected for him to show up. Then again, he always had a penchant for making me wait. I hated that about him. At last, he finally showed. He looked so cute. I always found him to be so attractive. It kind of puzzled me as to why he would do the things he did with someone who looks like me. I wasn't exactly the attractive type. I was paunchy, constantly hunching over, and my clothes were rather shabby. I guess he found something of interest in me; but what?

We walked to the movie theater, chatting along the way. "How have you been? What have you been up to? What's new?" he asked. I was still emotionally guarded at that time, so my answers were short, and disclosed very little. I always preferred for the other person to talk about themselves, rather than me talking about myself. I find myself to be dull, and boring. I hardly ever find anything uninteresting in the guys I meet. I prefer to surround myself with people that embody and represent everything that I am not.

After the movie, he did not want the night to end. "What should we do now? Should we go back to your place? Should we go get some ice cream?" he asked. I was rather surprised that he still wanted to hang out with me. I wasn't sure of his intentions, if he had any. Has he ever? Ultimately, we wound up sharing a pint of ice cream in a nearby park, and eventually met up with a group of his friends. This made me rather uncomfortable, seeing as how I become invisible as soon as other friends come along. It's understandable. I'm an outsider, an anomaly, to his friend rubric. He surrounds himself with lively, creative, happy people. I, on the other hand, seemingly serve a function of bringing him down when he needs a rest period. Is it true?

The temperature was still lingering in the low 80s, and it was now nearly 2 a.m. He was ready to head home, and he invited me to come along. One movie for the evening would not suffice. We watched yet another film at his apartment. In that moment, things went back to the way I remember them being, even if they meant absolutely nothing. We cuddled on his couch. Having my arm around him, and him being so close was exciting and anxious all at once. What could he possibly be thinking? By the time the movie ended, it was nearly 4 a.m. This is when he invited me to stay the night. We had known each other, at that point, roughly two and a half years. Not once had he ever offered to let me spend the night. Why now? Why all of a sudden? What had changed? This may have all just been inside my head. It really meant nothing. Sometimes I feel as though he is incapable of feeling anything for me. Friendship or otherwise. The question still remains: what does he feel?

As we had done in the past, on numerous occasions, we had sex. That may be indicative of something. But what? Before we finally fell asleep, him cuddled in my arms, he asked me a question that has haunted me ever since. "Why do people die?" I couldn't bring myself to tell him what I personally felt; he had been devastated by the loss of a man that he had never met, but was madly in love with. My friends would later tell me my response, "I don't think I'm qualified to answer that," was a cop out, and insensitive to his feelings. Regardless of what he may have said when the topic came up again later on, I still do not know if it was or not.

That was one of the best nights of my life; and I spent it with a person that I love.

This Is How I Feel

Guess what? I'm sober right now. I'm not under the influence of any intoxicants. (That's not the point I'm trying to make, though.) But do you remember a time where you had too much to drink and you ended up like that (<---) guy? Remember being hunched over the toilet, feeling like absolute shit; the only things that were running through your head were: "why?", "why me?", "when will this be over?" That's exactly how I feel (in a figurative sense).

Right now I'm merely enduring it all. I'm waiting for it all to pass. There's not much I can do to make it any better. However, my endurance is running out; I've been hunched over that toilet for nearly seven years.

Photo from assbach's flickr.

The Stranger News Internship Recap

November 19, 2009: the day I sat down with Dominic Holden and Garrett McCulloch over coffee and nervously made my case as to why I should be the next news intern for The Stranger.

November 20, 2009: after a few back and forth emails, Dominic sent me this:

This sounds great. Can you start on Wednesday at 11:30 a.m.?

I received the good news while I was at work, and I immediately ran around and told all of my coworkers. They were so happy for me; I was in shock. As I would later admit to most of the editorial staff, my first experience with The Stranger was in 2003, sitting around the cafeteria with my newly made college friends, eating dinner, and reading aloud the bizarre personal ads in the back of the paper. Little did I, or anyone else, know that six years later I would be interning and writing for the very same paper. Life certainly has it's interesting moments.

In the beginning, I mostly read through daily police reports. You'd be surprised at the amount of shit that goes on at Nordstrom's. If you've never looked at police reports, or gone for a ride-along, I suggest you do so. You'll be amazed at what goes on "behind the scenes", so to speak. I did some original reporting on an up and coming Queer Youth Space; attended City Hall meetings; spoke with legislators in Olympia; wrote some book reviews; Party Crashed; and even solicited some free Savage Love advice from the man who sat 30 feet away.

In the end, it was well worth my time and effort. Now it's time for bigger and better things...and things that pay.

Text Message Of The Day

From a friend:

"FWD: (my) Life is just so fucking amazing. Whatever I did to turn it around, I'm glad I did. (your words only months ago.)"

Yes, I did indeed send him that message.