If Ted Bundy had a Queen Anne...
"You look like a cross between the new Jan Brady and Hitler," I told my roommate as he stepped out onto my home's covered porch about two Sundays ago. And I wasnt exaggerating. He had slept funny. His Rustoleum-black hair - though normally swooshed to the side like a Manga character - was covering half his face in the front, but sticking out in barbed wired curls in back. The screen door slammed behind him as he held his MacBook and stretched before lighting his morning cigarette. He resembled the unholy offspring of Fred Gwayyne and Tommy Wiseau, and as he settled into the white wicker chair next to me, the two of us looked like the kind of neighbors that caused other neighbors to cross the street when passing by.
Radar & I stand out in our neighborhood like Jihadists at a church social. We both tend to look like SOA extras - him, with a Goth's love of black, and me, with a leather man's love of inappropriately long goatees. We tend to resemble two 46-year-old ghouls, perched in a Norman Rockwell painting, surrounded by red geraniums and cigarette smoke. I've often written about the past seven years of revolving roommates, but Radar seems to be a keeper so far - a New Orleans native, as batshit-crazy as myself. It's hard not to feel just a little sorry for my conservative neighbors, but hey - we don't sell drugs, host wild parties, or throw whiskey bottles at passerby. In deeply-Catholic Aurora, Illinois, in the land of big families and even bigger church-hats on Sundays, it's admittedly twisted fun to be the gay guys in the house at the end of the street. "No Señor, we no like your lifestyle...but Jesus give you pass because he like how pretty the jotos keep their yard." Chuckling...I've learned to pick my battles.
Radar & I stand out in our neighborhood like Jihadists at a church social. We both tend to look like SOA extras - him, with a Goth's love of black, and me, with a leather man's love of inappropriately long goatees. We tend to resemble two 46-year-old ghouls, perched in a Norman Rockwell painting, surrounded by red geraniums and cigarette smoke. I've often written about the past seven years of revolving roommates, but Radar seems to be a keeper so far - a New Orleans native, as batshit-crazy as myself. It's hard not to feel just a little sorry for my conservative neighbors, but hey - we don't sell drugs, host wild parties, or throw whiskey bottles at passerby. In deeply-Catholic Aurora, Illinois, in the land of big families and even bigger church-hats on Sundays, it's admittedly twisted fun to be the gay guys in the house at the end of the street. "No Señor, we no like your lifestyle...but Jesus give you pass because he like how pretty the jotos keep their yard." Chuckling...I've learned to pick my battles.
Chicago Pride, 2015 In addition to living in the heart of Jesusland, I've occasionally blogged about how difficult it's been to find/meet other gay dudes in the area. And that's surprising when considering that next to Chicago itself, Aurora is still the largest city in the Chicago area. We're bigger than even Naperville or Joliet, though it's often hard to see. Aurora is one of those towns that's so big we're actually made of other smaller towns. That is, we have "old" Aurora, "new" Aurora, rich Aurora & poor Aurora, Aurora with Spanish signs on its businesses (and a bigger celebration for Cinco de Mayo than the Fourth of July), Aurora that tries to pass itself off as Naperville, and countless distinct ethnic neighborhoods with clearly-defined boundaries. I often joke about my own circle of streets - an inner-city collection of historic districts, with whites, blacks, and Hispanics all participating in ongoing gentrification. Radar & I are not the only gays on the block, but all of us gays tend to keep low profiles in an effort to keep the peace. Flying a Pride flag here would be as inappropriate as lighting up in a non-smoker's house, so the price of living on a quiet suburban street means getting along with everybody. But getting along or not, us gays are still...here. And that's easy to forget until you see something big happen - like last weekend's Chicago Gay Pride parade. The jotos - literally - came out of the woodwork, filling the Metra's early morning trains to capacity. So much for low profiles.
The morning commute, minus the sedan. Speaking of profiles, I was thinking about my own today as I watched Radar head off to work on his motorcycle this morning. A New Orleans native in town for two years, my roommate bought a bike before he got a car - without even thinking about the words "summer tornado season." For the past month and a half, he's been roaring through Aurora scaring the hell out of everyone - the neighbors in particular, who have long been frightened of me. He wears his leather jacket no matter how hot & humid, and like Lizbeth from The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo, he's a tech-goth hired to shake up corporate America (only without all the blood, rape, and Enya). But there in lies not only the problem with Radar, but also with myself. We're both middle-aged fish out of water, stuck for the moment in one of Chicago's most conservative burbs. And Aurora isn't exactly Mardi Gras - or Pride/leather - friendly. Our social lives...suck. And not in fun Grindr way.
On the subject of Grindr, after my own self-esteem-crushing exploration with the app a few years back, I suggested to Radar that he try his luck on a dating website. I was surprised to learn that he shies away from social sites (a typical tech-geek quirk I've leaned, a reluctance to share too much personal information online), but between my blog, site, and other social-networking profiles, I'm just the opposite. "What can it hurt?" I asked. "It's the 21st century, for Christ's sake." After a few nights of prodding, I convinced him to begrudgingly set up his own OKCupid profile. I followed myself a few nights later, and over the past four weeks or so, we've been exploring the tragedy of mainstream online dating - with little to show for it but laughter.
And let's be blunt: it's hard not to laugh when watching all the commercials, late-night, side-by-side with Kevin Tudeau, especially Our Time and EHarmony.com. Those white-haired spokesmen - all of them male, and rejected by reverse-mortgage companies - promise that after answering just a few hours worth of questions, our soulmates will be waiting in our inbox, baldness & girdles be damned. "If you're ready to settle ... err, I mean settle down ... then, join our site where thousands of singles are waiting." The current crop of over-40 singles sites remind me of MAD-TV's Lowered Expectations Dating Service, only without the laughs. They're like those Israeli services that sell Purim baskets to terrorism victims - internet trolls making money off other's misfortune. And though OKC is technically free, I'll admit to paying for a month's trial subscription to get the best experience from the site. But so far it's been a bust. Not a soulmate in sight. Not even a smoking buddy for days like today when Radar's at work.
On the subject of Grindr, after my own self-esteem-crushing exploration with the app a few years back, I suggested to Radar that he try his luck on a dating website. I was surprised to learn that he shies away from social sites (a typical tech-geek quirk I've leaned, a reluctance to share too much personal information online), but between my blog, site, and other social-networking profiles, I'm just the opposite. "What can it hurt?" I asked. "It's the 21st century, for Christ's sake." After a few nights of prodding, I convinced him to begrudgingly set up his own OKCupid profile. I followed myself a few nights later, and over the past four weeks or so, we've been exploring the tragedy of mainstream online dating - with little to show for it but laughter.
And let's be blunt: it's hard not to laugh when watching all the commercials, late-night, side-by-side with Kevin Tudeau, especially Our Time and EHarmony.com. Those white-haired spokesmen - all of them male, and rejected by reverse-mortgage companies - promise that after answering just a few hours worth of questions, our soulmates will be waiting in our inbox, baldness & girdles be damned. "If you're ready to settle ... err, I mean settle down ... then, join our site where thousands of singles are waiting." The current crop of over-40 singles sites remind me of MAD-TV's Lowered Expectations Dating Service, only without the laughs. They're like those Israeli services that sell Purim baskets to terrorism victims - internet trolls making money off other's misfortune. And though OKC is technically free, I'll admit to paying for a month's trial subscription to get the best experience from the site. But so far it's been a bust. Not a soulmate in sight. Not even a smoking buddy for days like today when Radar's at work.
Sites like OKC are no different than hookup apps. They all draw from a small pool of local people, and they follow a similar pattern: you get lots of responses within the first week...you message a few folks, they message you (or visa-versa)...by the second week, interest quickly fades - and you're left looking at the same old profiles...by the third week, the site has run its course and no one wants to talk to anyone anymore. It's a predictable cycle, and it seems to apply to all social sites. At risk of sounding like a total sleaze bag, at least with hookup apps, you're likely to find occasional overnight company. I never thought I'd miss the days of cold-cruising a bar, but the plus-side to local taverns is that they provided real human contact, rather than a thumbnail pic - and cryptic online descriptions.
Again, in the world of over-40 online dating, we pick our battles...
Again, in the world of over-40 online dating, we pick our battles...