During my first three weeks in Vancouver, it came as no surprise to me that I was stressed. I had no job, belongings, or knowledge as to why I decided to move west when all my best friends flew east. Leaving Winnipeg, I had prepared for these stressors as best I could. I had enough money saved up to get me by three months without employment, and enough faith to know that I’d discover why I was in Vancouver soon enough.  However, what I did not anticipate were the stressors I never saw coming.

It never occurred to me that, not only would I have to learn a new city once I landed, I would also have to navigate my way through nine years of personal issues I had slipped under the table since I was fifteen. (Let me tell you, there is no bloody TomTom for that – I checked.) For just short of a decade, I always kept myself so busy I never had time to think. Working a minimum of two jobs throughout school, I knew full well that if my schedule cleared up even for a second, I would slip. I’d fall back into depression like I always did, stop answering phone calls and never leave my bed. Flying out of Winnipeg, it never occurred to me once that  my schedule would also go up into thin air.

Well, effectively paralyzed by my fatal miscalculation, I spent the better part of June and July locked inside a dark apartment. With the blinds closed and the television and stereo off, I would count down the hours each day until I had to go to work.

One morning I woke up at six a.m. with a rash on my forehead that I was convinced looked ten-hundred-thousand-times worse then it actually was. Not able to calm myself down, I literally fled from my bed and ran straight to the hospital down the street. With no clue what I was doing or where I was going, I ended up standing outside Shoppers Drug Mart for a half-an-hour until it opened at seven. Treating the pharmacist as if she were a qualified physician, I took her advice and returned home with two extra-strength Benadryl tablets. Waking up nine hours later just in time for work, the allergy medication never did clear up the rash, but it did work to knock me out.

The next time stress got the best of me, and the final straw I might add, was when I woke up after my 24^th birthday. Opening my eyes to the blotchy ceiling above me, I crawled out of bed and walked over to the washroom mirror. My shirt missing, to my horror, when I turned on the bathroom light to reveal my reflection, there was blood dripping down from a gash on the bottom of my right ear and scratches all over my shoulder (1279).

In my life story, I have been the catalyst to and unwilling subject of a number of inciting incidents. In 2004, I came out to my friends and family. After that, my life was never the same (and thank heavens for that). In 2008, my first love lost his job and fled the province in less than three weeks. After that my life smelled like premium gin. More recently, last June I pulled up the rug from under my feet and moved to the West Coast. Naively, I believed that with one direct flight on West Jet my life would magically fall in place. Oh Seany. I should’ve known when my moving truck arrived three weeks late that this change was not going to be as easy one.

As far as I am concerned, the last summer and 12 months preceding it living in Winnipeg are a complete blur. This is generally the case when one’s life is a train wreck. Flying by the seat of my pants and the available credit on my VISA card, I didn’t know where I was going or what I was doing. Now that the dust has finally settled (for the time being at least) I feel I can finally begin to sort through some of the pieces from the wreckage. Care to join?

— Before I type any farther though, I must state for official blog purposes that each entry on this site will be no more than 500 words (give or take 16). This is in part because of the content. I am writing you a story that has no beginning, middle or end. It is not an advice column, shopping guide or journal of what I did in the past 24 hours. It is a journey – or rather a glimpse into one – and just like you, I have no clue where the heck it is going. And so, to save myself from writing entries that are 5,000 words long and you from yawning at the very thought of actually having to read them, I have set this limit.

It is interesting, but my greatest fear moving to Vancouver was not whether or not I would find a job, make friends or miss my friends and family – it was the moment I stepped off the airplane with no one to meet me on the other side. For weeks leading up to my departure, this fear consumed me. It kept me at the bar way past last call and woke me up the next morning with a raging headache and no clue how I got home. I knew why I was afraid. I was terrified because to me, the moment I got off that flight, signified the official moment in which I would be alone.

I am still trying to solve the mystery as to why I this fear haunted me so. Obviously, my trepidation crumbled as soon as I arrived in the baggage terminal, and turned on my cell phone to receive six text messages from friends and a friendly phone call from my father. But I promise I will return to the subject as soon as I have the proper words to do so (674).

*Alright so I totally broke my 500 word rule two paragraphs after I set it. How about we make it more of a guideline then a rule; rule is such a big word anyways.

Stumbling home from Abigail’s last July, I can remember vividly saying to myself: in September things will be different. Once summer is over, my life and bank account balance will level out. I will come home early each night after work, and wake up even earlier the next morning to work on my novel.

Bussing home from Hell’s Kitchen in September, I can remember vividly saying to myself: in November, things will be different. With the rain and colder temperatures, there is no possible way I will be staying out late six nights a week. I will open my curtains to overcast skies each morning and be rendered immobile, with only enough energy to sit at my desk and type.

Cabbing home from Maenam Thursday night, I realized two things: the first being that I don’t like going home to an empty apartment at night (will elaborate on my pathological fear of being alone in a later post), the second being that my life was not going to change unless I changed it. And so, the following day I walked to the Starbucks a block from my place and dropped off my resume.

Three interviews and free tall darks later, I was hired yesterday morning as a full-time Shift Supervisor.

Informing my restaurant manager last night that I would be reducing my availability to two shifts a week in the New Year, he questioned me “how can you possibly make more money at Starbucks than you can here?” Answering him earnestly in not these exact words, I said “I can’t. I estimate this career-change will equate to roughly a $600-$700 dollar loss in monthly income. That is why I still need to work two nights a week.”

There is no doubt that serving is about the money. Having scoped out the job market for the past few months, I have learned that even with an English degree, other than answering phones at a cable or hydro company, there is no way I can earn the same income as I do working three to four hours a night in a busy restaurant. However, from my personal experience these last two years, I have learned that when it comes to personal health and well-being, serving tables carries no value.

This change terrifies me, and so it should. I am exchanging a twenty-hour work week for a fifty-hour one in hopes that somehow, I will get more work done. I guess my only hope is that six months down the road, things will be different. Either that or I will bussing home from some place in Surrey that serves dirt cheap beer.

“Why Starbucks?” the district manager for South Vancouver asked me at 8:35 yesterday morning. My answer rehearsed from the previous two interviews, I said “First and foremost, I have always felt safe and welcome at Starbucks. The hair salon of the 21^st century, I have always held true to the belief that the massive corporation is a sanctuary for fabulous gay men. (Alright maybe I didn’t say that last sentence, but I thought it.) Second, I am looking for structure, stability and routine in my day-to-day life and I believe if everything works out, I might come close to finding it here. And third, I spend enough time in the bloody café, I might as well start getting paid for it.”

I know what you’re thinking: how does one exactly open the door to their unconscious? And that is an excellent question; the answer of which I am positively unsure. At first I decided to channel Jung and write down every detail of my sleeping life so that I could better understand my waking one. Trouble was, by the time I got out of bed, brewed coffee, checked Facebook and sat down with a pen and pad of paper, I had managed to forget everything I had previously dreamed. So taking a more modern Eckhart Tolle approach, I decided to be more present so as to not miss the opportunity to dissect myself.

We all have triggers. Buttons, that, once pressed, evoke a guttural response in us whether we are conscious of it or not. Ranging from the expensive scent of a past lover to the picture of someone you tried to remember but could not help but forget; these triggers stimulate each of our senses and are generally set off in the most unexpected places.  Once one of our buttons has been pressed, in an instant, we make the decision to block our response (hold back the tears, pop a Pepto for the upset stomach) or invite it in for coffee and let it all out. Let’s just say for the past two months now, I have been brewing a lot of coffee.

It seems that I am brought to tears at pretty much the drop of a hat these days, and although I am sensitive, even I can admit it is a bit much. From an episode of Ugly Betty to a stopover at Sunday mass, my bed-sheets are wrinkled with envy my eyes balls are so wet (I try.) However, just to clarify one thing quickly, just because I am sadder than Demi Moore in Ghost that is not to say I am unhappy about it. I find this time of my life just as exciting as it is tedious, and sobering as it is hung-over.

For each time I run to the washroom to get toilet paper (aka Bachelor’s Kleenex), I feel as if I am letting something go; shedding an old skin, if you will, to make room for a new one. Allow me to provide you with an example. Submitted for your approval by the gay blogger’s society, I call this story… *bonfire poofs* The Tale of the Ugly Redhead.

In the past, the Fox has given me an extra-boost of self-esteem when I needed it the most. He is the pink tie tucked under my pin-striped vest, the faux-fur hood of my gay-muskrat sweater and the extra olive in my gin martini. He has made me laugh in times I could not break a smile. Through heartbreak, razor burn and rejection, he has proved himself as an expert at always finding the silver lining. Most importantly, Rugged Fox has given me the creative voice to share over 100,000 words of prose with you. There is no doubt Rugged is a substantial part of me, and always will be. However, with this new blog, I feel it is time to explore some of the dressed down parts of me.

So it comes with this sentence, that I feel I must express my anxiety on the subject. To me, the prospect of writing under my own name is terrifying. As “Rugged Fox” I feel untouchable, as “Sean Robert” I feel completely vulnerable. Believe you me, the Crab inside me would much rather hide under the shell of a character or persona then sign something with his name on it. That is why I have kept the content of this soon-to-be blog locked tight within the ink-stained pages of my journals for the last nine years. So what has changed in the past decade that I feel it is now safe to come out of my shell?

Well, from changing my profile name three times in the last two years, I have learned a thing or two about the nature of blogs and writing for a public audience. First, no matter how the real the picture is they paint, a blog can only ever provide a reader with a two-dimensional look into a person’s life. A writer can use tools of the trade, optical illusions even, to make it look like they are uploading you with a “true” and “deep” image of who they present themselves to be. But rest assured that, no matter how far back you think those mountains are, they are on the same surface as the crystal-clear lake in the foreground.

Because any blogger will tell you that when it comes to meeting another blogger for the first time in person, the fact is that, in actual reality, they know nothing about each other. They might know what each other looks like from their profile pictures, but they have never seen each other. They may have heard each others voices streaming on the speakers of their computers, but they have never heard one another. They may have (last example I promise) read each word the other has written, but they have no clue whether they can carry on a conversation for more than five minutes.

Just like a book in High School English class, a blog is, in my opinion, open-game for any number of interpretations, insights, and personal theories. For the voice of a blog is neither mine nor yours – it is words attached to a name on a page. (Insert some confusing quote to expand on thought by Foucault or Derrida here.) But at this point I will digress, for what do I know? I am just a redhead who has had way too much coffee and not enough breakfast. And so, in the spirit of a conclusion, I will conclude.

I paid careful attention to how I phrased the first line of this letter. This, “Sean Robert: A Prairie Boy Goes West,” is a story of my life. It is not the story. So with that in mind, nothing here is definite and I am going to make some toast.

Sincerely,

Sean Robert

PS. I promise I will start writing the blog soon, and stop writing about writing it.

Fortunately for me, a bright light from Winnipeg helped to provide me with some killer insight this weekend. Her name is Kyla, and she is one of my closest friends. Over a bottle of Pinot Noir last night, I relayed to her how, as of late, I am entirely unimpressed with the persona of Rugged Fox. I told her how since moving to Vancouver I have run into more than my fair share of Rugged Foxes: fabulous gay men whose self-esteem is determined by the price-tag on their jackets. And I am not happy with what I see.

In Winnipeg, visible gay men were about a dime a dozen. As a result, I had very little exposure to the culture I supposedly left the closet to become a member of. When I was nineteen/twenty, the image I cultivated for myself as a gay man was adapted primarily from the images I had acquired from watching television and reading magazines. I had no gay male friends, and very rarely went to the bar. Because of this, I think I developed a fairly narrow understanding of what it meant to be ‘gay.’

For years living on the prairies, I defined myself entirely by my sexuality. Every time I stepped on a bus, I was conscious I was different. Every time I made a new friend, I assessed the potential risk they might reject me. I remember this one night when I was twenty-one, one of the bartenders at Gio’s (the gay bar) made an off-hand comment that I could not call myself “gay” because I had never been with a man. At the time I was defeated by his words, and naively, thought he was absolutely right. I talked the talk, but could I suck the cock? Thankfully, it was not until months later that I realized his hurtful words had taught me an important lesson. His lasting impression awakened me to the realization that a person’s sexuality is determined by so, so much more than who they go to bed with. After I was old enough to truly appreciate this, I began to see the world through a different set of eyes.

In the months that followed I became inspired to show the world what I saw. This aspiration led me to writing “Fabulous Disposition,” a monthly column for Manitoba’s only queer magazine, Outwords Inc.  Filtering my own life experiences through the narrative voice of a gay man much more fabulous than I, I aspired to pull back the curtain on the designer-laden stereotype of the “modern Western gay man” and expose it for all it was worth. By detailing my own shortcomings as a homosexual, I hoped to show people that being “fabulous all the time” was not something that came naturally, but required thousands of dollars of personal trainers, therapists, and expensive skin products. At first everything was fine and dandy (pun intended), but soon it became apparent that I had begun to lose myself in myself.

This fact occurred to me on a second date with a gentleman who lived on the prairies. Sitting across from him on his one-bedroom couch, our small talk (also known as biding a respectable amount time before we made out) took a ‘twenty-questions’ kind of turn. It was then that I realized that he had known who I was, long before I had ever met him. Shocked by the news, at first I was flushed by the fact that I had achieved such relatively-minor celebrity status at such a young age. But then immediately afterwards, I became fearful for the image he had preconceived of me.

“Who do you think I am?” I asked him after an awkward moment of silence.

“Honestly,” he replied, “at first I thought you were pretty shallow and self-centered, you know, from the stuff you write. But now I am pretty sure that is not the case.”

Floored by this revelation, I wanted to rip my seriously-good-looking face from the top-right corner of every page that had been printed with my name on it. Rendered insecure and overly self-conscious by our conversation, for months afterwards, I felt the need to reassure everyone who had ever read me that I was actually somewhat smart. Eventually, in order to ease my own peace of mind, I would give that voice a new name: Rugged Fox.

Since moving to Vancouver, my perception or rather, fabulous disposition, has changed. No longer underwhelmed by the prairie feeling that I am the “only gay in the village,” my sense of self has become less centered by my sexual identity, and better-rounded by who I am apart from that. It is as a direct result of this gradual change, that I have encountered more and more difficulties giving a voice to Mr. Fox. To me, he was born from the struggle that I faced trying to conform my 3-dimensional body to a one-dimensional stereotype. Now that I have abandoned that fight, I have changed, and so must he.

So what does this mean for ‘the misadventures of Rugged Fox?’ Good question. I will continue to write the site but the format is going to change. I am going to give him a makeover, and sober him up enough to start talking about something else than drinking. I am also going to work on creating entries that are more “column-like” in style and as a result will be posting on a less frequent basis. Do not fear though, the calendar is still coming.

Oh yes. Before I forget, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Sean Robert. I am 24 years old and a full-fledged prairie boy. Last June I moved to Vancouver from Winnipeg, Manitoba with great aspirations to meet the man of my dreams and finish my much anticipated novel. (lol) So far I have accomplished none of the above. And instead, find myself bankrupt by Fitness World, the local gym, and serving six nights a week in a restaurant that I do not love. It is nice to meet you. Oh yes once again. I had an interview with Starbucks today. Wish me luck!