The Misadventures of Rugged Fox: Recent Episodes
Rugged Fox
Oh Hey! I'm Rugged Fox, a West End boy with a prairie heart living in Vancouver, B.C. I love writing, drawing comic strips and drinking red wine.
Heavens to Betsy! I had to dust off my keyboard this morning, before wiping away the shame at the thought of calling myself a “writer.” I must implore you to forgive me for my flaccid fingertips. If there was a little blue pill I could take to heal my creative ails, I promise I would.
I am writing to you now (barely) from my dining room table at the Fox Den. Sipping a delicious cup of dark roast, I am wrapped in a cozy L.L Bean sweater I bought 40% off. Outside on this November day, the sky is a familiar grey. Inside the apartment is quiet, apart from the slumbering sounds of Bow, formerly known as my “younger boyfriend.”
At this moment, I can tell you with casual warmth, I have been off the market for nine months and eight days. I can also tell you who is counting: me.
It feels like decades ago, that I would spend the evenings scrolling through endless faces of strange men to encounter. Now, I pass the time on my phone each night, sending countless messages to one man asking, “Why aren’t you home yet?”
I know from my socials, it may appear this relationship has been one much-liked Instagram photo after the next, and it has. However, that is not to say, there have been many deleted What’s App messages along the way.
“At this moment, I can tell you with casual warmth, I have been off the market for nine months and eight days. I can also tell you who is counting: me. ”
Bow and I celebrated the occasion for our six-month plus one-day anniversary at a fancy Italian restaurant downtown. Dressed to the nines, we checked in for our 3:00 PM reservation for Happy Hour.
Taking a seat on the picturesque patio next to an Italian marble statue with a trickling waterfall, the afternoon sun casts a radiant glow on our white tablecloth.
“This place is so nice,” I said to Bow, as the host placed down our menus. “You remembered your gift card, right?”
Placing his hand over his brow, he simultaneously disregarded my question and thanked the wait staff.
When two glasses of complimentary prosecco arrived next, I could not wait to raise a toast.
“Cheers babe,” I said, “to breaking the six-month…”
Before I could say another word, I watched the blood drain from Bow’s face in terror. Beads of nervous sweat racing down his forehead, I noticed his champagne flute begin to shake mid-air. All of a sudden, it felt like a bomb was going to go off.
At that moment, Bow knew what I could no longer deny. From the late night/early morning, we first met, I confessed to him that for 39 years on this planet, I had been subjected to a horrific “six-month curse.” Not once, had I managed to successfully see a relationship last longer than half a year’s time.
In the first few weeks, we were together, he reassured me that I was just being dramatic and had nothing to worry about. But then, as more time passed, and the seasons changed, we both discovered tragically, that there was no curse at all – it was just me! The closer he tried to get to my heart – the faster I ran! Literally.
In month five, I was setting world records sprinting out of gay bars on Davie Street one Friday night after the next. I swear, other gays would look at me on the dancefloor and then check the time, thinking “When is Rugged going to run?” While it is true, that I am a fan of an occasional dramatic entrance and exit; I pause when one begins to build a reputation for it.
My glass still raised in the air; I pivoted.
“Cheers to making it… Facebook official,” I said loud and proud.
“Cheers honey,” Bow smiled.
As our glasses clinked there was no explosion, not one piece of shattered glass.
Well, wouldn’t you know! After several glasses of happy hour pink wine, one bowl of mixed olives, and a Caesar salad, we failed to notice the flashing blue and red lights outside. As we paid the bill and stood up to leave, the restaurant manager calmly escorted us through the kitchen and out the back door.
Standing in the alley, we wondered if this was some kind of special VIP treatment.
“Gentlemen,” the manager said sternly, “please leave now, quickly. There is a bomb threat across the street, and they have shut down the entire block.”
“Are we on a movie set?” I asked Bow, nearly fumbling over my brown wing tips.
“No Rugged,” he took my arm, “now let’s leave before we do blow up.”
Okay, first I want to start by thanking everyone for their direct messages regarding my younger boyfriend. To clear up any confusion, yes, he is real – and no, I did not make him up. While I truly appreciate your concern about the state of my mental faculties, I can assure you I have never felt so rational before.
Also, please stop sending me invites for upcoming events as part of “Men’s Mental Health Month.” I cannot RSVP because I am very busy dating a non-fictional man who is very much real.
Now, we can get down to business. Based purely on superstition, I have decided not to share my 30-year-old partner’s name with you until we have officially been intertwined for six months plus one day. For now, he shall be Nameless. I have also notified Facebook that my relationship status will remain single until August 16th, 2024, at 12:01am.
I know we haven’t discussed this yet; however, I want you to know that I did not enter this partnership lightly. While it is true, in years past, I have offered my hand in marriage to any man who made direct eye contact with me – this time is different.
I have always understood that with great age comes, great responsibility. And so, being the “Older Boyfriend” was by no means a role I intended to take lightly.
When Nameless first asked of me monogamy, I must admit, I was unsure at first, I was up to the task.
CUT TO:
INT. The Fox Den – Bedroom – Past Reasonable Bedtime
Lying in bed, under the curtained glow from the streetlight, NAMELESS turns over to RUGGED FOX and asks him a very important question.
NAMELESS
Will you be with me and no one else?
RUGGED FOX
I am unsure I am up to the task.
Ill-timed, Rugged Fox’s smart phone starts pinging with the familiar sound of Grindr notifications.
NAMELESS
Babe, what is that?
RUGGED FOX
(scrambling to silence his phone and feigning cluelessness)
What is what babe?
And so it was that I deleted Grindr for the 347th time.
Naturally, as soon as I was no longer a single man, I made a commitment to myself to be the best “Older Boyfriend” in the province of British Columbia. I made a vow never to form the sentences, “I am tired” and “It is late,” or ask the question, “can we go home yet?” I also contacted the bank and increased my credit card limit.
This of course, worked out very well for approximately seventeen days until I had a major breakdown in a private karaoke room. Physically exhausted after shutting down The Cross Swords on Davie Street nearly every night for two weeks - and utterly broke given the high cost of leaving the apartment, I could not sustain my role as “Older Boyfriend” anymore.
FADE IN:
INT. Private Karaoke Room – Late on a Weeknight
An exhausted and broke Rugged Fox finds himself on the edge of tears, as Nameless cues up “Stars are Blind” by Paris Hilton on the karaoke machine.
NAMELESS
(singing)
I don’t mind spending some time… just hanging here with you.
RUGGED FOX
(bursting into tears)
I don’t think I have what it takes, apart from age, to be your older boyfriend anymore!
NAMELESS
(continuing to sing)
Cause I don’t find too many guys… that treat me like you do.
Endeared with Nameless’ unwavering commitment to song, Rugged Fox manages to get himself together in time for the chorus.
NAMELESS & RUGGED FOX
(in unison)
If you show me real love baby, I’ll show you mine!
Now, I would love to stay and chat, but after my recent psychotic break, Nameless suggested we go to a gay men’s support group tonight. Apparently, it is part of “Men’s Mental Health Month.” At least, I RSVP’d with a plus one.
There is a man in my bed. And I know his first name.
Sweet Meryl, could it be that for the second time in 15 years on the Coast, Rugged Fox is off the market? More troubling and back in the first person, if I am no longer a certified singleton, is my writing career over?
Okay, I know you want to hear all the details. However, we must proceed with caution. We do not want to jinx this! Even though it has been years, the last thing I want is a repeat of the real-life disaster that turned out to be Theodore J. Nelson. Give a man a starring role on your website, and it is only a matter of time until you scroll down to the part where he breaks your heart.
How did we meet? The answer to this question depends on the audience. If you are my Uncle Curt in Alberta, I will tell you that we met at the Vancouver Gun Range in Port Coquitlam (confusedly). If you are Mama and Papa Fox, I will tell you that we met on the ferry over to Granville Island - at sunset. And if you are my gay friend Dom, I will show you the exchange of messages that led him to my front door one fateful night/morning at 4:48 AM.
What is he like? I must abhor us to slow down with this incessant line of questioning! Must I remind you about the six-month curse? I don’t know what kind of cruel trick this universe has been playing on me; but I have yet to experience a relationship that lasts longer than half a year. It is true! Even my first relationship with Frederick Davenport (who crushed my heart as if it were a gin and tonic at happy hour) lasted five months and twenty-nine days.
“I am going to need a bigger splash than that.”
In full disclosure, looking back, I was committed in an opposite sex relationship for nearly a year. However, that felt like an eternity for us both. Even though she is now married with children, to this day, I still send an apology letter each year with the kids’ birthday cards.
Okay! Fine, top of my glass if you must. I am going to need a bigger splash than that.
I will tell you this much, he is younger. (Not in the creepy/illegal sense! Why do I always feel the need to clarify that?) Mere weeks after we came together for the first time, I sat next to him at dinner while he blew out the candles on his 30th birthday cake. Oh, me oh my! I have said this before and I will say it again: if you are a balding ginger with a slight pudge and fledgling website on the cusp of his 39th birthday, it is essential you find yourself a younger man.
Did I ask him to marry me? No, of course not! I have so many projects on the go, the last thing I need is People magazine calling about wedding plans. Did I tell him about my infatuation with The Stud across the back lane? One day I will. Has he asked me multiple times why I keep looking out the window? Maybe.
Darn it! He just woke up and asked me to accompany him to a bite to eat. As a gay man, is it ever possible to tire of brunch? I don’t think so.
Sweet Meryl! What has it been, like ten thousand years since we last caught up? Looking down at this keyboard, I must admit feeling a touch lost. I would like to tell you that I disappeared into a wellness retreat, lost twenty pounds, and achieved sobriety; but you and I both know that is a story for another website.
Okay, let’s be kind and rewind to last September. I was on fire! And not in the sense that I needed antibiotics. Working two jobs and writing the script for a short musical comedy, I felt like the doors were finally starting to open in this town. Not to mention my own, every single night, to a new gentleman caller. More on that later.
Well, what do you know? Out of everything I could contract, a film deal - a boyfriend, I woke up in October with an awful case of conjunctivitis. For the record, I like pink wine, not pink eye. I will spare you the details and selfies. After one trip to the emergency department at St. Paul’s Hospital, I ended up back in quarantine.
“Too soon!” I texted Mama and Papa Fox. “Too soon!”
In November, it took days before I could shake the feeling of being wildly contagious. Easing myself back into the dating game, I made an active effort to order in less and eat out more. It was not long before I was going on dates in the outside world. One night, I met a very sweet man for tea in a coffeeshop. Can you believe it? The only major problem was that his life was together and mine was not.
“For the record, I like pink wine, not pink eye. ”
After a brief flicker of light, the eternal darkness of December set in. Each year I find Christmas time to be a particular shade of blue. This past holiday season was less baby and more navy. Drinking more wine than usual, I felt like I was starting to burn the candle out at both ends. And then I did. Falling into a deep depression, I felt lonely, miserable, and under-dressed.
After weeks of wallowing, come January, I knew I had to snap out of it. And so, I made some serious new years resolutions. Like an adult, I accepted a line of credit and resolved to buy new bed, mattress, and couch. Just because my life was a hot mess didn’t mean the Fox Den had to be. I also wrote a resignation letter and sought out to change my entire career path once again.
And then, just like that, on February 1st at 4:48 AM, I met someone.
“He’s gone,” I said to myself last night, looking yonder across the back lane. Then taking a sip of red wine, I wiped a single tear from my eye, and closed the curtains.
Returning to my couch, I reached for the remote and clicked on Rodger’s & Hammerstein’s “The Sound of Music.” Losing myself on an Austrian hillside, I felt a brief reprieve from sadness, until the Von Trapp children started singing their song.
“So long,” I sang along, sobbing.
“Farewell,” I choked on my next gulp of wine.
“Auf wiedershen,” I thought about my attractive German friend Felix. Guten Tag Felix.
“Goodnight,” I wailed.
Pandemic Pete has moved.
Yesterday morning, I could not help but notice a flurry of activity in his apartment as I waited for the coffee maker to beep. At first, I thought he was celebrating American Thanksgiving because it was really a family affair. In the kitchen, his mom puttered while his sibling’s brought life to a typically quiet living room.
“I have never met the family before,” I poured a cup of dark roast and started a conversation with myself. “This is truly turning out to be quite a nice day.”
Then, at approximately 11:03am everything changed.
At first, I didn’t think much of it when the moving truck arrived. With rent prices soaring and the average cost of wine in a restaurant nearing $10,000 a glass, the end of the month is always a busy time in downtown Vancouver.
“It was then, I reasoned I should stick to nursing wine; however, even that still remains a challenge.”
“Wait, where are they taking his plants?” I felt my mood shift and blood pressure rise.
If I can tell you one thing about Pandemic Pete I know for certain, he is an excellent gardener. His blinds are always open because his entire apartment is filled with beautiful plants. For the last three years, I have watched him tend to them every Sunday afternoon with loving care.
He even inspired me to test out my own green thumb! As you know, ever since 2014, I have been hesitant about plant caretaking. That was the year, of course, I was so busy managing The Meatball Hut, I failed to notice the plant I had been watering was fake. It was then, I reasoned I should stick to nursing wine; however, even that still remains a challenge.
Well, wouldn’t you know it, at the time of this writing I have half-a-dozen plant friends currently in residence. The mood has been a bit tense, as of late, as two of them are on life support. I may or may not have, unknowingly, drowned them. Last month, when Mama Fox was in town for the weekend, she was none too happy with me. At 38-years-old, I received a scolding about how plants are not nearly as thirsty as me.
As I watched his apartment empty, I could not bear to look any longer. At sunset, he shut the blinds for the first, and last time.
It is true, we first laid eyes on each other in March 2020 cheering for the front-line workers. During the tumultuous lockdowns that followed, his steadfast routine served as anchor for me. While most days, I woke up on the living room floor, he sat working from his kitchen table. And while yes, it is true, as restrictions eased, my attention turned towards apartments elsewhere.
That said, I will never forget the time we never spent together.
Goodbye Pete, or whatever your name actually is.
Last time on Rugged Fox… Moving to Shipyard for a pink nightcap, Rugged locks himself in a washroom stall after running into a pack of young suburban gays. Feeling old and conservative, the balding Fox questions the reflection looking back at him in the mirror.
There comes a time in every gay man’s life when he has to part ways with his highly attractive cousins.
Outside Shipyard, I gave Drum and Heller each a prolific hug before saying goodbye.
“I am going to miss you both,” I said, tipping my non-existent cap. “And your sure we’re related?”
Smiling, I watched the two of them hop into an Uber, before heading to the sea bus.
As I set sail from the North Shore, I felt a welcome sense of relief to return to a familiar skyline. Looking out at the city lights, I closed my eyes, and felt my mind begin to drift.
“When will I see you again?” Mr. Serious asked, outside the front door of a restaurant.
“This was nice, but I don’t think it’s going to work.” I replied, honestly.
“I will make it work,” he asserted, pulling me in for a kiss.
“There was no question this man was a total top, which made me regret what I ate for lunch.”
When the rain arrived last winter, I resolved to start dating again. It had been over a year since Theodore J. Nelson moved from a star in my inbox to the trash can. And so, I agreed to a lunch date at a popular Vietnamese restaurant in Mount Pleasant.
“So, what do you do?” I asked, taking a bite into a delicious crispy spring roll.
“I work in a very serious position,” he replied.
By the time our cheque dropped, it was clear all we shared in common, was a lack of hair on our heads and companionship in our lives. Apart from that, we couldn’t have been anymore different. We worked opposite schedules, lived on different sides of Main Street, and had very different tastes in film.
You can understand why, I found myself somewhat confused, on our first date, we were now kissing.
“I will make it work,” he stated firmly again.
There was no question this man was a total top, which made me regret what I ate for lunch.
And then, well, wouldn’t you know it? He kept his word.
As the sky faded into black and the weeks passed, we turned into “boyfriends.” From East to West Vancouver, we ate out, ordered in, and twice cooked. The only trouble was, we weren’t a match, and neither of us was willing to be the first to admit it.
When the spring arrived and the sunshine returned, our time together ended in the same setting it started. After an embarrassingly loud argument over Lebanese cuisine and a rush for the bill, the two of us stood outside the front door of a restaurant, once again.
“So, I guess this is it?” he asked, looking down at the sidewalk.
“I think this is the page where our story ends,” I replied.
“I did make it work though,” his eyes locked into mine.
“You…”
“Excuse me sir, sir, sir!” A strange voice grew louder into focus.
Opening my eyes, I realized I was the only passenger left on the sea bus
“We have arrived. It is time for you to disembark this vessel.”
Tipping my non-existent cap, I thanked the good man for his service, and carried on back to the West End.
Read all of this misadventure from start to finish!
This morning, I was sitting on my couch, scrolling through my feeds, when a roar from the back lane shattered the monotony of my socials. Nearly spilling my steaming hot dark roast all over my lap, I got up to see what was astir. That was when I laid eyes upon the most dreadful sight. There he was, The Stud, on a motorcycle, dressed head to toe in black leather. As if this image could not get any worse, on the seat behind him, his boyfriend clutched on to his back.
Okay, here is the deal, I promised myself I would not dedicate any more words to The Stud. The truth is, he has already robbed me of so much attention, I fear at this point, if he takes my prose too, I might as well be filing for chapter eleven instead of writing it. Which is why beg you, we must not speak of him forevermore.
I am writing to you now from the patio of one of Kitsilano’s hottest new restaurants: Radish. Only blocks away from the beach, this fine establishment features a lunch menu with delicious sandwiches, wine, and so much more. Tell you what! Give me sourdough focaccia with prosciutto cotto, melted mozzarella and a lemon aioli spread, and I will give you my heart. Pair that with a crisp glass of rosé and I’ll send you my buzz code.
As the pink cherry blossom petals rain down around me, I cannot help but think back to all the fictional love affairs I indulged in over the years. From my relationship with the Postman on 12th Avenue in 2010. He never stopped delivering packages, and I never stopped sending them. To my Dental Hygienist. Oh sweet, sweet, Harry. After all these years, despite my gargling, he has never once stopped asking me to “open wider.” And more recently, who could forget Pandemic Pete? His steadfast routine working from home provided me with a sense of stability during even the most turbulent times.
And The Stud? How dare you ask me? He has brought nothing but chaos into my life.
“He thinks he can just move into my territory with a full head of hair!” I squawked to my dear friend Felix the other night over beers.
The two of us met at The Heatley on Hastings, a terrific neighbourhood bar with live music and warm lighting.
“I would swear on my bag Pacey he is on –”
“Ruggy!” Felix interrupted, imploring me to stop. “Get a hold of yourself man!”
Pausing for a moment, I realized the two pint-glasses on the table in front of him were empty. Whereas mine was still full.
“Now tell me.” He leaned in across the table, “what happened to that guy you were actually dating? You know, the one you have been seeing for three months?”
“What? Who?” I feigned ignorance, taking a large gulp before sinking into my seat. “Oh, right him!”
Fortunately, at that exact moment, a band took over the stage. Even better, the volume was deafening.
“Wegotintoanargumentoveraspicyahitunarollandihaven’tseenhimsince,” I mumbled, inaudibly.
“WHAT?” Felix shouted.
“Tell me about your knife,” I spoke louder, cleverly switching subjects.
“WHAT?! I CAN’T HEAR YOU?” he yelled again.
“I SAID, TELL ME ABOUT YOUR WIFE!”
Goodness gracious me, this last month has been an absolute blur. For starters, I completely underestimated the impact of jet lag. Secondly, I flew back to Vancouver just in time for allergy season. (Which you and I both know is always a downright walloping.) And third, I indulge in my fair share of rosé.
“CHRISTINE!” The Phantom of the Opera is closing on Broadway. I can’t even talk about it so I will tell you this. The last time I was in New York I turned down tickets to see my favourite musical of all time. “Why?” you ask. Because I said, “all good! I will see it on the next trip.” And now, you must pardon me while I bang my head on the table. On a side note, I met a guy once who hooked up with two Raoul’s and a Javert. As if that little tidbit was not intriguing enough, he didn’t even like musical theatre.
Just a head’s up, like me right now, this post is going to be all over the map. I apologize if you get dizzy.
Did I mention I started a day job? That is right. Just before I skipped hemispheres, I applied for a part-time position sitting in front of a computer at a desk. That sentence blows me away; because all this time working full-time nights in a restaurant, I have been trying to do just that. The truth is, I am my own worst boss. Each time, I set an alarm clock to wake up and write, I make a point of turning it off before bedtime. Now, that I am on someone else’s dime, I have no choice but to rise and whine.
“ It was not long after that he became top-ranked on Grindr, Scruff, and Facebook Marketplace.”
I must admit, another major problem I am having these days is focus. I don’t know whether it is the aftermath of spending so much time at home alone, or simply the fact I am getting older and balder; but I cannot help but notice my neighbours. These days, the view outside my window is more captivating than anything I can stream on television. While Pandemic Pete puts the finishing touch on dinner, it appears The Stud has ordered in a meal of his own.
I don’t know if you remember, but The Stud moved in across the back lane a few months ago. Part cowboy, part Abercrombie & Fitch model, I was more than happy to welcome him to the neighbourhood, until I learned he was fierce competition. Scrolling through my phone one night, I was aghast to see his twenty-something face winking back at me. It was not long after that he became top-ranked on Grindr, Scruff, and Facebook Marketplace. Meanwhile, the demand for the Fox Den plummeted like Plexiglass.
The one night I finally managed to invite a gentleman caller in, I looked up from my empty wine glass and asked him why he brought a violin.
“Because you said you wanted to hear me play,” he replied.
“Goodness gracious me. Please, go ahead.”
Okay! Let’s hold up for a minute before jumping to any conclusions. Yes, I will be the first to admit there are several aspects of this life which I am clueless about. For starters, I have no idea how to hang a shelf, make a baby, or operate a Mac. This week, I also learned I have little to no experience with jet lag.
After returning from New Zealand, I thought that it would only take a few days before I was back at it. Before departing, I was warned that the jet lag would be worse flying east. However, like a ginger – equal parts arrogant and naïve – I believed I would be fine. Sweet Meryl I was wrong! Never did I imagine, I would wake up each morning the better part of a week, feeling like I had the hangover of the century. Awake when I should have been asleep. Asleep when I should have been at work. It was all a right mess.
Last night, was the first time in ages that I managed to say goodnight to the moon. Waking up refreshed, seconds later I was aghast at the sight of my apartment. My poor nightstand was littered with empty cans of Diet Coke. In the living room, I screamed when I saw the hardwood floor was eclipsed by take-out bags. Stepping carefully to the washroom, I winced at the sound of Pringle chips crunching underneath my feet.
“Starting the shower, as the steam began to roll in, my reflection clouded, and my mind drifted away to a time not long ago.”
Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, I hesitated before flipping on the light switch. I felt just as tired as I suspected I looked, and I was right. After completing a thorough inspection of the dark circles under my eyes, I did an inventory of the white hairs on my beard: plus twenty-six. Failing to upkeep a proper skin regimen since February, I was not surprised to see that, patches of dry, red skin, had taken over my cheeks.
For a moment, I debated turning back off the lights, pouring a glass of red wine, and saying “better luck tomorrow!” But then I remembered I said that the day before, and also the day before that.
Starting the shower, as the steam began to roll in, my reflection clouded, and my mind drifted away to a time not long ago. When I whipped around New Zealand like I was a guest in Willy Wonka’s glass elevator. Moving backwards, upside down, and all around, I explored the North Island while reuniting with family.
One sunny afternoon I was in The Shire, sipping from a pint of ale at the Green Dragon Inn. The next I was standing at the edge of a cliff top, overlooking the emerald waters of the Tasmanian Sea. From New World to Countdown, streaky bacon to flat whites, I took in the local cuisine. Getting a taste of the big city, I rolled Mama Fox up and down the black diamond streets of downtown Auckland. On a farm, I tipped my hat to a cow before paying my respects to the sheep. And then before I knew it, I was back on a flight to Vancouver, somewhere over the Pacific Ocean.
“Holy Sheep!” I screamed placing one foot in the shower. The water was scalding hot.
What a painful reminder the present can sometimes be.
“Sweet Meryl,” I prayed before boarding a flight to Auckland, New Zealand last week. “Please do not let me end up in the Pacific Ocean.”
Fortunately, she was listening because after taking off from Vancouver, I landed safe and sound on the ground nearly fourteen hours later. I also learned from a promotional video on board the flight, Kiwis do not say, “Oh hey!” but rather “Kia Ora.”
I know what you are thinking. What on earth is that ginger doing so far down south? Did he meet a rich Aucklander who flew him out for the weekend? Is Rugged Fox huge in the southern hemisphere – unlike back up north, where he still called a blogger? Or is he simply a closeted fan of “Lord of the Rings” who spent thousands of dollars to see a movie set?
Well, the answer to all the above questions is no. I happen to find myself on this majestic island for a family reunion. That’s right folks! After many, many moons the Fox family is back together under the same roof (well kind of). While I am staying in a storybook cottage with Mama and Papa Fox, Sister Fox is only a short drive away at home with her husband and two kids. This is the first time I have met my nephews without video chat.
Talk about a journey! I can honestly tell you that I do not travel much. Typically, the most adventure I see in a week is leaving downtown Vancouver. That is why, you will understand, the prospect of boarding a long-haul flight was not a settling thought. For weeks leading up to the trip, I felt myself experiencing equal parts excitement and dread. Of course, it also did not help that I restarted watching “LOST.”
“Taking my seat in economy, I patted myself on the back for doing such a good job flying prior to take-off. ”
On the day of departure, my flight was scheduled to leave Vancouver at 7:15PM. Waking up first thing in the morning, I took the advice of my Kiwi regulars at work and went directly to the gym. “Get as much exercise as you can,” they told me, “make yourself really wanna sit.” Crushing the elliptical for the first time in months, I didn’t get off until my legs had turned to mush.
Later that day at the airport, I reasoned it would not be a good idea not to eat before boarding. I have already packed my luggage to the brim, I thought to myself, there is no reason for carrying any more weight with me. So, taking a seat in a lounge, I pushed the food menu aside, and ordered a horrifically over-priced 5oz glass of red wine. And then another one, just because I was on vacation.
Taking my seat in economy, I patted myself on the back for doing such a good job flying prior to take-off. The only fear I had left now, was bumping into an Air New Zealand flight attendant I had a layover with one night. Long story highly censored, the two us met in a hotel room in 2018. Everything was fine until I learned what he did for work. Then, when it was my turn to head south, instead I asked him ten-thousand questions about Auckland. My bad.
Two hours into the flight and one movie down, I felt the most curious upset in my stomach. Ignoring it, I searched for another New Release, when the grumble turned into a roar. Fumbling into my satchel for a can of Pringles, I tried keep the anger at bay one chip at a time. “I sure as heck hope they serve dinner soon,” I said to my seatmate who was fast asleep. “Because gollly-gee-whiz I am hungry.” By the time the dinner tray arrived, I was already asking about breakfast.
Pulling out my journal, I made a note to eat before flying next time.
When it came time for lights out, I was confident that I would have no trouble at all sleeping. Just like the passenger in front of me, whose seat was extended far back into my lap. After seventeen readjustments, ninety-six realignments, and four-hundred counted sheep, I felt the oddest sensation in my legs. Placing my hand on my left kneecap, I let out an “Ooowweee!” Not before long, all the muscles below my waist were screaming.
Because of physical limitations, I could not reach my journal. But I did make a mental note to not destroy my legs before flying next time.
Fortunately for me, the pain subsided in my legs after the temperature in the cabin dropped so low, I could no longer feel them. Shivering under the complimentary blanket, two thoughts crossed my frigid mind. 1) Are we flying over the Antarctic? And 2) Is heat only available in first-class? With only eight hours left to go, I was unsure I was going to make it.
But good news! Because I did. After crossing one equator, fourteen different time zones, and losing a calendar day into thin air, we touched down at the Auckland airport at 5:30am. Going through customs, I declared six boxes of Kraft Dinner and pledged an oath I would never cheer for an Australian sports team.
On the other side of the gate, I met Mama and Papa Fox along with Brother-In-Law Bear, who was holding my first “long black.” Taking a sip of the delicious coffee, I said, “Kia Ora Oh Hey! Let the good times begin!” Then I asked my mom whether it was possible to get hypothermia on a plane.
Goodness gracious me, how I detest thee February! Okay, I admit detest is a strong word. However, it did provide me with the cacophony I was looking for.
All I can is, thank Meryl this is the shortest month of the year. As if waking up to the colour grey every single day is not miserable enough. Throw into the mix a common cold and then a sucker punch with Valentine’s Day! It is no wonder why I find myself eating chocolates under a mountain of Kleenex, crying. What is that? What is that you say? This Monday is “Family Day?” If you need me, I will be under my duvet.
We are turning a corner though folks! I am determined not to look back on the entirety of my thirties and picture an empty bottle of wine. The truth is, between you and me, last month I knew it was time for a change, after I accused a box of rosé of spreading misinformation. The good news is these last few weeks I have gone ahead and made some major life changes. Let me tell you about them.
Major Life Change #1: Just Say No Nancy Reagan, I am not talking drugs in this case, but rather loneliness. It is curious, I have had several problems in my life (drinking, stalking, carbs) but feeling lonely has not been one of them. As a young ginger, I always managed to keep myself entertained. If a game required more than one player, I simply took out my collection of hats.
This decade has taken its toll! A pandemic aside, I have learned there is nothing worse than having hard-working and ambitious best friends. Before you know it, they have kids, move out of the city, buy a restaurant, and altogether pursue their dreams. Then, suddenly you find yourself alone in your junior one-bedroom apartment with no plans and even less hair. Desperately trying to escape the vacuum of your existence, the only real question you have is: What should I order in tonight, Pad Thai or strange men?
I have had previous experience waging wars against depression and anxiety, but loneliness is an unfamiliar foe. The worst part is that – even when you surround yourself with good friends and dogs, what you think surely should be the cure, you still can’t shake it! I have learned recently, the only way to beat it is to recognize it right off the hop, and just say no.
No Grindr! No Instagram! No Happy Hour at The Keg by myself, even though gosh darnit I love that cheese toast.
“I am determined not to look back on the entirety of my thirties and picture an empty bottle of wine.”
Major Life Change #2: Stop Obsessing over Men across the Back AlleyUgh! You know this is a hard one for me. Even now, I cannot help but look above my computer screen and right into Pandemic Pete’s apartment. It is not my fault the man has yet to shut his blinds once in four years. Today he is not working remotely, though, so the fluorescent light is off in his kitchen. He should be home by ten after six unless he goes away for the long weekend. Wait, what?
The more serious issue, however, is my new neighbour I call “The Stud.” I first mentioned him a few posts ago and have been trying to ignore him ever since. In his early twenties, he looks like an Abercrombie & Fitch model, and drives a jeep with a license plate that says, “T0TAL T0P.” He also always has a can of La Croix in his hand at all times. The worst part is, whenever he gets home, the first thing he does is close all the curtains. From time to time, I find myself casually glancing his way, as a steady stream of muscled men comes and goes through the side door.
I have checked and he does not exist on Grindr, Twitter, Instagram, or Only Fans.
Of course, now that it has been thirty-six hours since I made major life change number two, I am no longer obsessed.
To be continued.
Oh hey! I originally wrote this post 12 years ago. I was twenty-six at the time and had been in Vancouver for the better part of two years. Searching for anywhere to get published, I started writing for a local magazine with half-naked gay men on the cover. When the editor asked me if I wanted to appear in the style section of one issue I nearly passed out. Spending hundreds of dollars at Club Monaco that I did not have, I pieced together a mish-mash ensemble of new, used, borrowed, and blue clothing. By the sounds of it, you’d think I was getting ready to walk down the aisle, not the runway. When I wrote this, I remember having a ton of fun! I hope you get a kick out of it to!
Alright, so I’ve been holding back like some seriously major news. My plan was to keep it secret until the next issue of the magazine came out, but you know how much trouble I have keeping my mouth shut.
So, before I overdose on adjectives, I am just going to come right out and say it: I am a supermodel. That’s right bitches. Text it, tweet it, Facebook it! Because yours truly will be appearing in the style section of the hottest gay rag in town: DSD (Davie Street Divas).
You might think I was chosen for this honor because of my personal panache, trendsetting wardrobe, and heroic jawline. And while you are right; I was also the only person to beg for the job after one of the models dropped out.
“Rug Burn,” the Style Editor emailed me last-minute. “Rock Banyon that ho, had to cancel, something about blowing out his knees. Now I am one model short for a full-page spread and that is where you come in. All you have to do is dress gay, which we both know shouldn’t be a problem. Main and Waterfront, 4:00pm, tomorrow. You’re welcome, kisses, don’t reply, I won’t write back, London.”
Closing my laptop, I was enthralled my wardrobe was finally getting the recognition it deserved. Kneeling before my shoe rack, I patted my blue-suede Hush Puppies and apologized to my red-laced Fluevog’s for neglecting them. Then, rocking my cowboy boots in my arms, I whispered, “we did it guys, we are finally going to the top.”
Now that I was going to become a supermodel and there was no time to spare, I made a checklist of things to do.
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Stop eating.
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Think abs into existence.
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Get haircut.
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Polish cowboy boots.
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Start smoking and/or take-up cocaine.
Waking up the next day, I managed to accomplish nothing on my list. Piecing together an outfit from my closet - to my absolute horror - I realized I had no pants to wear. Boot-cut and loose-fitting, all my slacks were considerably straight. Plus, I knew the perfect shade of blue I needed to really make the ensemble pop. Looking down at my non-existing watch, I called a cab to Club Monaco and asked the driver to step on it.
Tipping generously, I fled up the stairs to the men’s section with my bag Pacey strapped around my shoulder. Making a b-line for the clearance rack, old Winnipeg habit, I heard a fabulous voice rise up from behind a corduroy coat rack.
“Can I help you?” emerged a man who made up in personality what he lacked in height. He was dressed like he was going back to school at Harvard and smelled like one of my ex-boyfriends.
“Oh my gosh yes!” I replied, taking my excitement down a notch. While shopping for clothes in downtown Vancouver, I have learned that you must establish yourself as an important person. Otherwise, the retail gays will treat you like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman.
“Hello, my name is Rugged Fox and I have a website.” I waited for any sign of recognition, but there was none.
“Hi, I am a supermodel and unless I find the right colour pants to match this outfit, I am going to lose my spot on page twenty-six of DSD.”
“For the first time in my adult male life, I felt the words bounce right off me. They could not penetrate the wooden heels on my boots; touch the vinyl lining inside my bag; or wipe the smile off my face.”
“Girl, I am Romaine. Now, what colour are you looking for?”
“Cerulean. It was featured in Calvin Klein’s 2011 spring collection.”
“Which Paul are we talking?”
“Come again?” I replied, confused as to his question.
“Newman or Walker?”
After a brief moment of silence, there was clarity.
“What did you say your name was, Ragged? Ginger wake-up. Their eye colours! If I am going to do my job properly, which I always do, I need to know the exact shade of blue you are looking for. Are we talking Paul Walker eyes, or Paul Newman?
“There is a difference?” I asked. To his clear dismay.
“Just follow me.”
As Romaine led me to the perfect pair of pants, I remembered to ask him whether he had a cigarette or two grams of coke. The answer was no.
One-hundred-and-fifty dollars later, and thirty minutes to spare, I took my outfit on a quick detour to the gay village for a test drive. It was a resounding success! As I strutted down Davie Street, old men hooted and hollered from the Pumpjack, before sloshing their afternoon beers. In front of Denny’s restaurant, a waiter ran out to tell me I was a “grand slam” just like their signature breakfast. Then, just as I was approaching Burrard Street, I received a much different reaction.
“You f#$king gays disgust me!” a man spat on the ground in front of me.
Then, turning to see him walk past, he spat again for dramatic effect.
In Winnipeg, I used to get called out for much less colourful outfits. Instead of honking or whistling, drivers would show their affection by rolling down their windows and screaming “faggot” or “homo.”
One time, three guys actually pulled over their truck to compliment my poofy sweater. Fortunately, I was in a rush at the time, and sprinted to the nearest Starbucks for safety.
I have always had the option to blend in; to throw on some baggy jeans and a hoody and watch myself magically disappear. The thing is, though, ever since I was a little boy, I have always preferred to stand out.
Standing still on the sidewalk following the rebuke, I found myself incapable of movement. Then, something surprising happened. I picked up my shoulders and placed one boot in front of the other. Taking the lead from my chin, my eyes lifted off the ground and my spine followed suit. I felt stronger than I ever had before, and I was in shock about it.
In the past I would have let a moment like this sink down into my stomach and poison the rest of my day. I would have carried the pain around like a grandé dark roast and tried to wash it down at the end of the night with red wine and gin. This time was different.
For the first time in my adult male life, I felt the words bounce right off me. They could not penetrate the wooden heels on my boots; touch the vinyl lining inside my bag; or wipe the smile off my face. This time around, I had an extra layer of protection that I never had before: self-esteem. This time I was bulletproof.
My boots switched into full stride, and I grabbed on to my cardigan before a gust of wind blew it away.
“Bring your chin up mate a little bit higher and try not to tilt your head so much,” instructed the photographer at the shoot. He had great pecs and the biggest lens I had ever seen.
“I am a supermodel,” I told him.
“Sure mate, whatever helps you get through the day,” he replied.
The fall issue of the magazine DSV hits select stands in Vancouver this October.
I have always said, “if I am going to wake up next to a man in bed, he better be a prince.” Well, as it turns out, dreams do come true; because each morning, I greet the day with Prince Harry in hardcover by my side. As the rain pours outside, the two of us gingers tuck under the cozy duvet cover. As he tells me his life story, I sip a cup of dark roast and eat a bagel with a low-fat cream cheese. This morning, I did finally manage to put him down. “It is my turn to write Harry,” I said, leaving the bedroom.
We are nearing the end of “dry January” and thank Meryl for that. While many people have chosen this month to abstain from alcohol, I have prohibited myself from social media. While I do appreciate winter vacations in tropical destinations, I do not like scrolling through endless photos of them. Especially when I am cold, wet, and low. On New Year’s Day, I threw down my phone after nearly unfollowing everyone on Instagram. “If I see one more bitch on a beach,” I slurred, taking a swig from a bottle of prosecco, “I swear!”
Okay! Do you know a fact? I can tell you, in all honesty, that I did not go on a single date in the year 2022. Just so we are clear, I define a “date” as fulfilling the following criteria: taking place before 2am and including clothes, conversation, and an exchange of first names. That is why I made a goal this year to start dating; which represents a complete shift in direction for me. I have been practicing in the mirror, and instead of saying “don’t speak” to a gentleman caller, I am asking, “what interests you?”
Ever since I turned thirty, I have prided myself on being a solo Fox. I must admit, I have picked up a few deleterious habits along the way. For instance, if given the option between staying home with a bottle of red wine or meeting someone for healthy social contact, I struggle. And while inviting strange men over in the middle of the night can be, at times, pleasurable. There is also nothing wrong with taking the time to learn another man’s name.
On that note, last November, I nearly dodged a hook-up horror. Feeling lonely, vulnerable, and slightly intoxicated, I logged on to Grindr late one night seeking a temporary fix. After casting out my usual net of one thousand “oh hey’s!” I sat back and waited for a catch. After one hour passed, I was just about to pack it in when my phone lit up with a message: “How r u?” Fifteen minutes later and one pleasant back and forth, I was just about to send my location when everything changed.
“What you just wrote,” I typed, feeling somewhat confused, “that was not very nice.”
I can’t remember exactly what he messaged that rubbed me the wrong way; but all of a sudden, I was sitting up right on the couch and muting the television. What I was not prepared for was the deluge of vitriol that followed next. Within minutes he had fired off a slew of tormenting blue messages. In addition to the classic homophobic remarks, he insulted my weight and kept telling me over and over again, “I have your photos.” I was just about to block him when his tirade became less broad and more specific. This person knew me much better than I knew them.
“Do I know you?” I asked.
And then, just as fast as he attacked, he was gone.
Over the last decade, I have been fortunate that 99.9% of my encounters online have been positive. Apart from the occasional disappointment (on my part or theirs), I have met a number of kind, like-minded men, looking for a connection. The fact that, on this occasion, I was so close to sending this aggressor my address and unlocking the door, was a game changer.
“Navigating the present while getting side-swiped by the past, there are moments when I want to burst out of my shell, and days when I just want to hide.”
The next day at work, in a mild state of shock, I downplayed the entire experience. Telling the story to my co-workers, I concluded with a nervous laugh, “well, you know you must be getting famous when you start getting haters!” The following week, I logged back on to Grindr in defiance. I am not going to let one person take me down, I said to myself, determinedly typing “oh hey, oh hey oh hey.” Minutes later, I signed out, the fear getting the better of me. Shortly thereafter, I canceled my subscription and deleted the app altogether.
When I was in my teens, I always imagined my thirties would be much brighter than this. Taking into account recent world events, winter blues, and a broken foot, this time has not been without its challenges. If anything, these past few years, I have felt more like a teenager than ever. Rebellious, angry, and lost. Navigating the present while getting side-swiped by the past, there are moments when I want to burst out of my shell, and days when I just want to hide. I do not cast judgment on this experience as being “bad” or “wrong” per-say. I just anticipated being in a different place is all.
Wanting a change so bad I could taste it; I went on a date a couple of weeks ago. Sitting at a table in a crowded restaurant fully dressed for a 2pm reservation, I felt a good kind of nervous. Standing up when he arrived, I shook his hand and introduced myself. “It is nice to meet you…” On this first date, there were no $25 glasses of rosé, reality television cameras, or status updates. “I am out of practice,” I mentioned, after fumbling through basic dialogue. Taking a sip of water, I got back on track. “What interests you?” I asked, just like I had practised. “I am curious to know.”
I write to you now from a seat on board the Queen of Coquitlam. A majestic ferry boat, set to sail sea across the Strait of Georgia, from Vancouver Island to the mainland of British Columbia. Chock-full of anxious passengers, wrecked by this tumultuous holiday season, I have tucked into a quiet spot away from the hoi polloi. As the air horn blasts, I look out the window to see a towering tree line paint a charcoal silhouette across the canvas of a blank sky. Over the loudspeaker, an important message sounds from the Chief Steward.
“Good afternoon. I regret to inform you that we will not be serving gravy on this sailing. If you wished to order poutine, you will have to another time. I apologize for this inconvenience.”
As a collective groan builds up from the stern of the ship, crashing into the bow, I shake my head, pull out my laptop, and put on my noise-canceling headphones. A gentle sigh of relief does spread across my cheeks, however. Because if this is our greatest concern, this boat ride is already, much different than the last.
What a week this has been! After Claire and Mark’s Annual Festivus Shaker, two Wednesdays ago, I crawled into the back of an Uber enroute home. Judging from my cheerful state, the party was a complete success. As I strapped in my seat belt, I let out the gentlest burp of sparkling rosé. Relaxing into the backseat, I discovered my sweater was covered in cookie crumbs. Just as I began to revel in the magic of a Christmas, without public health restrictions, my peace was shattered by the driver.
“The storm is coming! The storm is coming!” he wailed.
“There will be much snow, there will be most ice, it will not be very nice!”
What is going on? I thought to myself. I did not recall taking drugs as the Festivus Shaker.
“Get out now to the grocery store!”
“Then lock yourself, inside the nearest door!”
Sobering up quickly, I asked him if we could add a stop to the nearest 7-11.
“Whatever you do, do not go out!”
“For you will regret it, without a doubt!”
Before I knew it, I woke up in bed the next morning, convinced I had dreamed the nightmare ride home. Rolling over to check my phone, however, I gasped when I read the forecast. The driver was right! A winter storm was set to roll in, and if the weather warning was right, there would be no chance I would make it to the Island on time for Christmas. If I was going to leave, I was going to have to leave now.
One bus ride into the mountains and three hours later, I rolled my suitcase on to the ferry’s main deck. Finding a seat inside, I was grateful just to have made it. Taking three deep breaths, I opened my meditation app, and proceeded to keep calm. Then, with renewed clarity and focus, I noticed a sign that read, “Now serving wine and beer!” Before a yogi could put their hands together and say “namaste,” I was in line at the dining quarters.
“For starters, the ambience was not ideal for the consummation of luxury canned wine.”
For over a decade now, I have dreamed of the day I could relax into a glass of wine, legally, on board. How civilized that time would be! Well, as it turns out, it was a touch more complicated than deciding between six ounces or nine. After presenting two pieces of ID to the kind kitchen staff, I ordered two glasses of red wine, one mandatory meal, and swore an oath I would not leave the designated drinking area. Filled with joy as my thirst was about to be quenched, I slid my tray over to the cashier.
“Happy Holidays!” I greeted them. “What a magnificent ship you have here!”
Looking down at my order, they punched a sequence of keys on the register, and then pointed at the total amount owing.
“FIFTY BUCKS!” I screamed. “Do you take credit?”
Well, as I squeezed into a seat in the brightly lit cafeteria, I can safely say, this was not what I had dreamed of. For starters, the ambience was not ideal for the consummation of luxury canned wine. With no ocean view, the prospect of watching the sunset was completely out of the question. And not to mention, as if on the clock, every five minutes my leg was hit by a rogue suitcase or screaming child. Did I make it work though? Of course, I did! Gratitude, after all.
…
Now, on my return home from a week spent with family on the Island, I am scheduled to arrive just in time to serve New Year’s Eve at the restaurant. I must sign-off for now, as we are reaching shore. I hope you and yours managed well this holiday week. I will see you in the year 2023.
It is not Rugged Fox’s heart that is broken this fall, but rather his foot and possibly his arm.
Rugged Fox finds himself covered in butter chicken after his love life disappears into thin air.
Rugged Fox embarks on his first vaccinated date. Will this finally be the one that leads to a second?
Rugged Fox fears he might become a Happy Hour snack when he finds himself face to face with a cougar.
Stuck at the Fox Den and yearning for physical touch, Rugged takes the mainstage of his living room and gives one of the best performances of his life.
Even though Rugged’s test result comes back negative; he realizes he is not off the hook just yet.
In Room 2, Rugged’s feet dangle over the hospital bed as he waits to see a Doctor who may or may not become his first husband. Spoiler alert: He does not.
With his fever still set to high, Rugged Fox peels himself out of bed and gets tested for COVID-19.
Rugged tears himself away from Pandemic Pete for a week to dog sit the Boston Terrier CLARK.
In this back alley tale of romance, Rugged’s efforts to seduce Pandemic Pete climax in the most dramatic fashion.
Rugged dishes about his back lane crush on Pandemic Pete and that time he went crazy, again.
Reporting live from the Fox Den, the Fox struggles to stay calm in the wake of a global health crisis.
Rugged tries to keep himself anchored at the Fox Den and not drift too far off in the wake of COVID-19.
After an extended absence, part writer’s block, part life, mostly wine, Rugged Fox returns to say “Oh hey.”
Flashback! Rugged test drives an outfit for Paris when he is accosted at the gay bar after a "straight man" invites him to dance.
Rugged Fox is finally back up and out of bed! After a tumultuous few years, Rugged sheds light on where he has been this entire time.
Sweet Meryl, I can't even tolerate myself right now. My heart is beating like a dubstep track that is just about to drop. Let me tell you why.
I am traveling to Paris and London in less than a month, and it just occurred to me that I have ten million things do before the trip. The last major city I visited was Nanaimo so you can understand why I have good reason to be nervous.
It took him nearly a decade, but Rugged finally discovers what lies at the end of the rainbow, the YMCA.
It has been so long since he last spoke, that Rugged Fox feels it is time to re-introduce himself.
Rugged recaps his wonderful visit with his dog nephew CLARK and gets ready to start dating human men upon his return to the Fox Den.
Rugged is proud to be a Gay Uncle to seven babies, one teenager and a Boston Terrier named CLARK.
Rugged settles into the Fox Den and begins reflecting on whether all the gentlemen callers in his life mean he's on fire, or just plain lonely.
Even though Rugged considers himself to be an expert on first dates he readily admits he is terrible on them. This story is an example why.
Sipping red wine at the Fox Den, Rugged Fox reflects back on 2017 and what he hopes for the New Year.
At 32-years-old, Rugged Fox orders an outrageous $6 cup of chamomile tea and reflects on the fact that his life is under more construction than ever.
Rugged Fox puts a bottle of Cono Sur Viognier down the hatch and tries to sort out his feelings about not having children.
Rugged recounts the tail of the time he was rejected by a man on Grindr because of his Instagram account.
As Rugged Fox settles into the Fox Den downtown, he welcomes the opportunity to exchange one negative routine for a healthier one.
Rugged finally gets out of a basement in East Vancouver and doubles his rent moving to a one-bedroom in the West End. On the night of his 32nd birthday he opens up to Clark and decides to make the move.
A practicing Baptist and out of practice homosexual meet head to head at an Italian restaurant in Vegas. In this high stakes game of Poker, the chips are in and all bets are off.
After four dirty martinis on the Strip, Valentina and Rugged stumble to an Italian restaurant for dinner. When they meet a friendly man sitting at the bar, little do they know the secret that he keeps.
Valli and Rugged arrive at their accommodations "a quick shuttle bus from the Strip." Fortunately, they win their first gamble but Rugged gets so excited he goes down for the count.
The Fox's trip to see the Backstreet Boys in Vegas gets off to a bumpy start at the American border, when he learns the Border Patrol Agent is an 'NSYNC fan.
A love struck sixteen-year old Rugged Fox finds himself at The Olive Garden dreaming about seeing the Backstreet Boys. The Prologue to the epic "Rugged Does Vegas/Vegas Does Rugged Flip-Flop Series.
Seeking a break from reality, Rugged Fox slips a little too far into Netflix. After watching seven seasons straight of Gilmore Girls, he begins to think he is actually engaged to Luke Danes.
Hopping over to the island for a hot minute to see his best friend Patrick perform in a play, Rugged looks back on his childhood and discovers that, after all these years, he was never alone.
Rugged's adult plans for Pride are foiled when he misses the Parade and the Prime Minster after taking down a bottle of bubbles before noon.
At his best friend Mary's birthday party in Yaletown, Rugged gets attacked by a Beaujolais of mean gays.
Drinking red wine on the plane with Irene, the Fox begins to tell the story of his tragic online dating history.
After the gin runs out, Rugged panics as he begins to go into withdrawal. Luckily, salvation comes from the lady two seats down and her purse packed with mini-bottles of red wine.
Rugged flies to Calgary to visit Grandma Fox and then returns home to have his eyes laser beamed by the most attractive Ophthalmologist.
With his mobile phone in one hand, and himself in the other, Rugged fumbles in a failed attempt at sexting.
Trading his tales for booze, the Fox tells his new best friend with gin about his first "hook-up" online.
On a Wesjet flight, the Fox confides how he found himself on a gay hook-up site to begin with.
In part one of the Grindr Monologues, Rugged Fox begins the tale of how he compromised his credit card on Grindr.
Rugged Fox’s new and free life outside the restaurant takes a turn for the worse when his anxiety returns.
Rugged Fox goes into detail about the year that just passed and the moment he quit the Meatball Hut.
As Christmas approaches, Rugged Fox tries everything he can to not drown himself in holiday cheer.
While getting his haircut, Rugged tells his Scissor Ninja how he fell in love the night before.
In this heartfelt post, Rugged writes a letter to his nineteen-year-old self letting him know everything will be alright.
Rugged dog sits a Boston Terrier named Clark and visits his friend Mary in the country.
It is the end of a tomato-sauce stained era, Rugged Fox quits his management job at the Meatball Hut.
After tracking down the perfect "country casual" outfit for the wedding reception, Rugged is shocked to arrive in overalls when everyone else is dressed in couture.
Violently hungover, Rugged almost attacks the brunch server when she informs him there is no liquor license.
Blues, dancing and big ass beers take over the night as the Fox Family checks into Beale Street.
In line for a tour of Elvis Presley's mansion, Rugged dodges questions from Mama Fox about why he is still single.
Just when he thought there were no gays at Graceland, the Fox meets platinum-blonde Billy.
True to form, Rugged ties one on the night before traveling and wakes up in a rush to get his tuxedo before catching his flight.
An epic day in San Francisco takes Rugged Fox from a disastrous bike ride to the Golden Gate Bridge all the way to a heavy make-out session at The Stud.
Rugged bares it all at Wreck Beach in an effort to cleanse himself of the year that passed.
On a self-imposed ban from frozen pizza and chicken parmesan, Rugged signs back up for the gym and faces the dreaded fitness test.
Single and living inside a restaurant, the Fox finds a morning without a hangover to return to his keyboard.
The Fox seeks a greater perspective from a mountain top when it is clear all is not quiet on the Western front.
The Fox goes on a date with Sebastian Elliot to a fishing village. He also breaks the news that he is moving downtown and got promoted at the Meatball Hut to a manager.
It is with good reason that Rugged becomes suspicious when he receives a phone number from a gentleman caller at the restaurant.
The Fox's first day in San Francisco could not be anymore perfect without his best friend Harper at his side.
Monday night April 6th AKA the Night Before
8:23pm. Impromptu photo shoot and packing party with one half-bottle of Wolf Blass Cab Sauv followed by a Moosehead for sleeping purposes.
Special props to Love for being the only person to vote on my Castro outfit. The rest of you are dead to me.
Tuesday morning April 7th AKA the Pilgrimage
5:30am. Feelings of death and cab ride to the train station.
5:45am. McDonald’s breakfast with two extra hash-browns, 20,000 calories, and more feelings of death.
6:15am. Conversation with US Customs Officer before boarding the train.
Officer: What is the purpose of your trip?
Rugged: Spiritual, sir. I am making a pilgrimage to Gay Mecca.
Officer: Excuse me?
Rugged: I am going to the end of the rainbow, sir, San Francisco.
Officer: Do you consider yourself a threat to the United States of America?
Rugged: Only to the sanctity of marriage, sir. I could really only hurt a 2-for-1 sale.
Officer: Welcome to the state of Washington.
6:30am. Pull out my laptop on the train car, crack my fingers, and prepare to continue writing my Pulitzer-prize winning novel.
11:15am. Wake up in Seattle with drool on the keyboard and 500 Microsoft Word pages filled with the letter “A.”
12:30pm. Arrive at Sea-Tac airport pretending like I am in an episode of Grey’s Anatomy. Smile when I am elected for extra-screening by the TSA Officer. This will be the most attention I get from a man the entire trip.
12:36pm to 4:03pm – Consumption of delicious 20oz. pint while reading Catching Fire, the second book of The Hunger Games. CNN plays on every TV in the airport as tornadoes toss-trucks like Lego pieces in Fort Worth and Dallas, Texas. 400 flights cancelled. Flyers panic. I order another pint.
4:40pm – Line up for general boarding because my seat is so far back in the plane it is almost on the next flight. Apply Urban Ear headphones, and turn up latest download by Boots Factor to block out the sound of the screaming baby in the seat beside me. Cover nose when mother changes baby’s diaper and stuffs the soiled one in her purse under the seat.
6:36pm – Touch down at SFO, tired, dehydrated, cranky and no longer excited about the fact I have arrived in Gay Mecca.
7:02 pm – Discover I am the last person standing at the baggage carousel with no bag.
7:15 pm - Conversation with flaming United Airlines baggage attendant:
Attendant: Shut your face I love your hat!
Rugged: Shut your face! Thank you!
Attendant: How many I help you?
Rugged: I am a bag lady without a bag.
Attendant: Ohmygod, it appears for some reason it is on the next flight from Seattle. Would you like me to get delivered to you tomorrow?
Rugged: Bitch please. I have at least two-outfit changes scheduled for tonight not to mention the fact that my face is so parched, it actually might fall off if I don’t apply moisturizer by tomorrow morning. I will wait.
Attendant: Ugh, I totes understand. Here is a $10 voucher for the Subway upstairs, it is happy hour so red wine is on for $3 a glass…
I was already at Subway ordering wine before he finished speaking.
10:05pm. Sixteen hours after departing Vancouver, I arrive at my final destination drenched, smelly and half-in-the-bag.
10:10pm. Unzip suitcase to find a white piece of paper that says “your bag was elected for extra screening by the TSA.” Pour myself an extra-large glass of convenience store cab sauv to ease pain.
11:00pm. Catch a cab to meet Jacquie O. at an exquisite apartment downtown with our new friends from San Fran.
11:15pm. Instructed by our new friends from San Fran, that San Fran is not called “San Fran,” or “SF,” but only, “San Francisco.”
1:00 am. Fabulousness sets in as the vino flows. Turn to Jacquie O. on the couch and say “I think I am really going to love it here.”
My pilgrimage to San Francisco starts in t-minus five hours and I need your help picking out something to wear to the Castro tomorrow night! For those of you who don’t know, the Castro is pretty much the gayest place on the earth. It is the treasure that lies at the end of the rainbow and the hallowed ground that Harvey Milk once propped a soap-box on.
Anyways, my suitcase is still empty and my closet has thrown up all over my floor. I need an outfit to wear to the hottest club in town – and if that one is full, the hottest lesser-known under-rated club in the general area. I have photographed four outfits for you below to help me choose from! Please comment to let me know which one you like best and I will get a shot of the winning outfit when I am down there!
PS. I am assuming it is going to be sunny the entire time I am down there (even at night, indoors) hence the aviators.
Vintage Ralph Lauren jeans from Bungalow in Toronto's Kensington Market. White leather belt by Mexx.
Deep purple V-Neck by American Apparel. Cerulean blue jeans by Club Monaco. Headphones by Urban Ears.
Black T by American Apparel. Black leather belt by Mexx. Denim Jeans by Penguin.
Navy blue jacket with detachable grey hood by Guess.
I am exhausted. Last Monday, I finished the end of eight draining shifts at the restaurant. Every week brings a different section and a new cast of characters. Friday night, I served wild salmon and champagne to two ladies whose breasts cost more than my English degree. Saturday brunch, I placed house cocktails in front of five gay men whose colourful outfits could not make up for their complete lack of personality. Sunday dinner, I refilled draft Peronis for a table of Brits who accused me of taking a piss after I told them we were famous for our brussel sprouts. This has been my story for the last three years.
These days I spend so much time working at the restaurant that I have fallen out of touch with the world. Unless news breaks on Alberni Street or at either of the two Starbucks on the corner of Robson and Thurlow, there is a good chance I don’t know about it. That is why I did not learn until Monday afternoon, when I eavesdropped on a table’s conversation at lunch, that Vancouver has become the most expensive city in North America. Out-ranking San Francisco, Los Angeles and even New York, there is no question this mountain town is one expensive bitch.
This of course comes as no surprise. Three years ago, when I first announced I was breaking up with Winnipeg to pursue a LTR with YVR, my decision was mixed with a salad bar of reactions. Some were fresh and positive – “I can see you now strutting down the seawall in those boots, so fabulous!” – while others were wilted and dressed with grave concern. “Bitch, are you crazy?” burst out my roommate one night following an episode of Ab Fab. Pausing to take a sip from his vodka martini he continued his line of questioning, “Since when did you become rich?”
Judging from their responses, it appeared that the majority of my friends were not only concerned about my savings account, but my mental health as well. To them, Winnipeg was the faithful wife of thirty years while Vancouver was the femme fatale: the gorgeous twenty-something who would eventually leave me high and dry with nothing but debt and really attractive Facebook profile photos. “I just can’t understand why anyone would want to do that to themselves,” whispered one of the regulars at my old café.
The answer was really quite simple: I needed to get out of Winnipeg and I needed to get out fast. I was wildly unhappy in my final year on the prairies. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t mend a broken heart and I was growing tired of RSVP’ing to my own pity party. Six nights a week out of seven, I would stumble home from Billabong with a gigantic VISA bill in my jean pocket and no memory as to why I decided to sleep in the hallway. By May 2009, my clothes were covered in dust and my arms were tired from picking myself back up. No matter how much it cost, Vancouver would be the price I would have to pay to start all over again. “Skyscrapers are a gay’s best friend,” I told myself.
The high cost of life in this city did not hit me until I walked in to a wine store for the first time. Making a B-line for Italy, I picked up my favourite bottle of Barbera D’alba and screamed when the price lit up on the cash register. My go-to bottle was ten dollars more than what I paid for it back home. I always tell people, it is not the rent that will bankrupt you in this city (unless you want to live downtown with a sixteenth-floor view of the sun setting over English Bay) it is the stick of butter at the corner store or the Thursday night out with friends that will get you in the end.
It is remarkable how quickly, as humans, we adapt. Like everyone else, it was only a matter of months before I got over the price of life beside the Pacific Ocean. Plus, think how much I was getting in return! Freedom! Unlike the prairies (and pretty much any Canadian town, excluding Calgary, with a population under a million) I was free to dress however I wanted. For the first time I could walk down the street with my partner’s hand in mine and kiss him good night at the Sky Train station without fear of being stoned or verbally assaulted. (Of course I have been devastatingly single since I arrived here, so that has been a touch of a waste, but it is still a nice thought!)
Within weeks, the Ocean began to heal me. Sitting on a bench alongside False Creek, with a non-fat latte in my right hand, I began the process of letting go. “Alright bitch, let’s do this,” I said looking up to the mountains for strength. And so, one-by-one, I ripped off each bandage that covered up a painful memory from the past. As the years went by and the scars eventually began to fade, I learned to respect the cards I had been dealt in this life and cherish the individual they had made me become.
But nothing comes without a price, and as I grew richer in some areas of my life, I became much poorer in others. With expensive wine tastes, an obsession with French skin products, and a love affair with take-out coffee, I entered into a life of indentured servitude at the restaurant. In order to keep up with the rising cost of my existence, I abandoned less profitable ventures like writing and poured my soul in to increasing wine sales and guest check averages. Counting my tips at the end of every shift, I developed a new addiction: money. I was am happy when I had have it, and upset when I didn’t don’t.
Walking passed Gucci, Tiffany’s, Hermes and Louis Vuitton everyday on the way to work it did not take me long before I became a material girl in a material world. The worst is when you have a closet full of clothes and no inspiration to get out of bed to wear them. I think one of the most challenging aspects of living in North America’s most expensive city is being constantly reminded of what you don’t have as opposed to what you do. In the words of Nina Simone, “Got my feet, got my toes, got my liver, got my blood, I’ve got life.”
That said… even though I make sure to thank Meryl Streep every night for everything I do have (including my CK bedsheets) there are a couple things I would like to add to the list, namely: a dog, time to write everyday and a dining room table big enough to host gigantic red wine dinner parties with all my best friends. Whether that story takes place in this town or the next, we will see.