A Conversation With My 18-year-old Self

I've been playing some Back to the Future games in my head lately that have been keeping me awake at night. So after a long absence from contributing to this blog I'm going to throw some more words into cyberspace in hopes of exorcising them from the front of my brain.
While sorting through things in my elderly mother's apartment to prepare for her to move to an assisted living facility I found several letters that I wrote to her and my dad over the years. One is dated 1968, my first year of college. It was quite a shock to meet my 18-year-old self in a letter from 47 years ago, especially since that 18-year-old was really pissed off (more about that later).
My mother was a reliable letter writer through all the years since I left home for college. It was our family's preferred form of communication in those primitive days before the internet. Long distance phone calls were for emergencies only. I would regularly receive envelopes from my mom that contained not just letters from her, but letters from other family members with all the family news from aunts, uncles, cousins and grandparents. She would often ask me to contribute my own news and send it on to one of my brothers. She called it the Round Robin.
The letters my mom saved were not the ones filled with innocuous small talk that revealed only sparse and sanitized stuff about myself for family consumption, but ones where I had something of importance (or so seemed at the time) to say. Reading them again all these years later brought back a lot of personal history that I haven't thought of for years. They touch on a lot of life decisions I made as a young man that in retrospect must have been difficult for my parents to understand. They are also revealing in what they don't say to my parents. Between the lines of these letters are also memories, experiences and life decisions that I chose not to share with them – choices I made that set me on a path of emotional and physical distance from my family. I think my mother was able read between the lines as well and realize that there was a lot I wasn't telling her. These letters represent little islands of honesty and real emotion in a vast ocean of midwestern WASP stoicism. That she saved them tells me a lot about my mother that I'm just now beginning to understand. They also are markers along a path spanning 22 years starting 1968 taken by many gay men of my generation that put physical and emotional distance between us and our families because we had to protect them from having to really know who we were. It would take 22 years to get to point where I felt I could begin to feel confident enough to be totally myself around my family.
Ironically, the thing that my 18-year-old self was so pissed off about that he threatened to "make other plans for my life" was not about his budding sexual orientation, but a haircut. Would my 18-year-old self have made different decisions if I could go back in time and have a conversation about his future? Probably not.

Scene: Late night in a dorm room at Butler University, 1968. The lights flicker on dimly as the young man wakes up from a deep sleep startled by a strange sound.

66-Year-Old-Self: AHHOOOOOOUU!

18-Year-Old-Self: Who are you? How did you get into my dorm room?

66-Year-Old-Self: AHHOOOU! I'm your future self here to show you the consequences of all the decisions your making as a young man that will determine your future. AHHOOO!

18-Year-Old-Self: Is this some kind of a joke? Barry, is that you trying to scare me? I've got to get a new room mate. Please go away. Besides you couldn't possibly be future me. You're old and fat… and bald!

66-Year-Old-Self: AHHOOOU! But I am you. If I wasn't you how would I know you're thinking about ditching your family over a haircut? AHHOOOU!

18-Year-Old-Self: That's none of your business and stop making those stupid ghost noises. You're not scaring me.

 66-Year-Old-Self: OK. But do you really think you can leave school and go out on your own without your family's support?

18-Year-Old-Self: I'll get a job. I was on my own all last summer. I didn't need anything from my parents.

66-Year-Old-Self: You were getting a $6o a week apprentice stipend and living in a dorm room at that summer theater. A real job in the real world means you have to show up every day to do real work and earn enough to pay real rent. Besides you'll lose your student deferment and you'll be drafted into the army and sent to Vietnam.

18-Year-Old-Self: If I can't get a job I'll join the navy. At least then I won't be canon fodder in that stupid war… and they have cuter uniforms.

66-Year-Old-Self: You know if you join the navy, the first thing that they do is give you a haircut.

18-Year-Old-Self: Leave me alone! You're worse than my parents! WHO ARE YOU?!

66-Year-Old-Self: AHHOOOU! I'm your future self here to show you…

18-Year-Old-Self: Shut up! If you're future me, then tell me my future. Tell me how I get so old and fat and bald! Tell me what happens if I don't get a haircut that my narrow-minded parents deem suitable for my narrow-minded relatives. Are they really going refuse to take me for Christmas at my grandparents? Do they really think I'm not old enough to make decisions for myself yet?

66-Year-Old-Self: It sounds like this isn't really about a haircut, but about you making your own decisions and whether your parents can accept it. Whether they can can accept who you really are.

18-Year-Old-Self: What do mean by who I really am? What do you know about who I really am?

66-Year-Old-Self: I know what you did with that oboe player last week. I know what you wanted to do with the cute blonde bass player in the band you saw at the dance last month. I know about the guy who took you for ride in his corvette and…

18-Year-Old-Self: Shut up! Now you're really scaring me. This is a nightmare!

66-Year-Old-Self: Look, I know this is a confusing time for you. I realize how unfair it is for 18-year-olds to have to make all these important life decisions that affect their future. I know what's in that letter that you're going to mail to your parents tomorrow. I read it 47 years from now. It reminded me of how angry and frustrated I was. That's why I decided come back here and have a conversation with you. I thought maybe I could make things a little easier and reassure you that…

18-Year-Old-Self: This is crazy! Reassure me about what? If you're really what you say you are, just tell me what to do. I'm really scarred that I'm not going to make it on my own. I feel so different about stuff than most of the other guys here, but then there are some that seem to feel the same way and are OK with it. Sometimes I feel like there's just so much out there I don't understand, things I want to do and places I want to go, but I'll never get to because I'm stuck with a family that will never understand me and let me decide things for myself. They want me to be like them. I'm not like them. I don't want to be like them. Or maybe I do and I just can't. I just don't know. If they really knew how I felt about things, knew about some of the stuff I've done would they even like me anymore? (laying back in the bed he turns away and gently sobs)

66-Year-Old-Self: I'm sorry. Maybe it was a mistake for me to come here. It's just that when I read that letter 47 years from now all the confusion and emotions that I felt – that you felt – when you – I – wrote that letter came rushing back to me. I just thought that if I could come here and have a conversation with you I could make it a little easier for you. Let you know you things would turn out OK. I'm not sure if this is my dream 47 years from now or your dream 47 years ago, but now that I'm here/there I realize dream or not, there's nothing I can tell you that will change anything or make anything any easier for you. I'll just go.

18-Year-Old-Self: Wait! Don't go! I don't care if this is just a weird dream. I can't believe I'm talking to my old self, but now that I am you've gotta give me more than that. You can't just show up here and fuck with my head, tell me "things are going to be OK" then skulk away.

66-Year-Old-Self: Alright, here's what I can tell you. You will be OK. But it won't be easy. You're going to make lots of mistakes, fuck up a lot of things and generally make many bad decisions that will cause you immense pain, suffering and self-doubt just as you're feeling now.

18-Year-Old-Self: Great! Then why bother if everything is going to be so fucked up and hard?

66-Year-Old-Self: Because even though you're being an ungrateful little shit to your parents now, they will come around and support you through all those bad decisions. They won't understand you or even know much about your personal life and you will continue to be a major source of anxiety for them for many years, but they will always be there when you need them and eventually you will be there for them when they need you. They will come to know and appreciate you as a man with no secrets. It will take many years for it to happen, but it will.
Because even though your life is going to be rife with disappointment, lose and grief it will also be filled with great moments of joy and wonder. You will come to know many great people and find yourself in many places that will surprise and delight you. You will make lots of mistakes, but you will have fun, lots of fun. Your life will be very different from what your parents had, but you will eventually appreciate that the people who raised you will always be part of who you are no matter how different you turn out.

18-Year-Old-Self: OK, that all sounds great. I guess I can go back to sleep now or wake up or whatever I have to do to make you go away. I just have one more question for you. Am I really going to be so old, fat and bald?

66-Year-Old-Self: There are just some things 18-year-olds shouldn't be told. AHHOOOU!

BLACKOUT

A Walk in the Woods

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I had recently read a murder mystery novel by Linda Fairstein called Death Angel. It's set in New York City Ms. Fairstein prominently used Central park as it's setting, particularly the Ravine and North Woods sections. These are in the northwestern part of the park which is not as well-known other areas. As 40 year NYC resident and ardent urban explorer it surprised me to learn of a section of Central Park that I had not been to. Ms. Fairstein described a stream and waterfalls in a low lying under-used and somewhat desolate area of the park as her characters searched for clues to solve a murder. I made a mental note myself that I must go there sometime. On a balmy autumn afternoon earlier this week with my camera I made it there.
There are many places in Central Park where by Mr. Olmsted and Vox's brilliant design one can turn a corner or go through an underpass and suddenly find themselves in a landscape that seems miles removed from the city that surrounds you. The Ravine is one of best examples this. I found the entrance by The Pool which is a lovely pond on the west side near 100th Street. You go down some steps by a waterfall and through an underpass called the Glen Span Arch and suddenly your deep in the woods by a stream.

Going Alone to the Theater

There's an old song from 1915 called There's a Broken Heart for Every Light on Broadway. One of them is mine. The theater is what brought me to New York City 40 years ago and even though it broke my heart, it is still one of the main reasons I'm still here. Many memories of my brief life in the theater came rushing through my mind last night while I watched James Lapine's new play Act One at Lincoln Center Theater. It's a very sentimental rags-to-riches story of Moss Hart's early life and first success on Broadway, based on his autobiography of the same name. Last night my experience was particularly memorable because of what happened to me just before the play began and what I am convinced could only happen in a New York theater.

After reading Frank Rich's article about the play and it's source material in New York Magazine, I put it on my to-see list and also read a biography of Moss Hart that Mr. Rich mentioned in his article. I had ordered a single discount ticket from TDF and was settled into my end of the row seat way off to the side of the orchestra section at the Vivian Beaumont, when I was approached by a woman who asked me if I had come alone. When I replied that I was, she invited me to come and sit with her in the fourth row center because her husband had backed out of coming at the last minute and she didn't want to waste such a good seat. I had been prepared for another magical evening of theatrical nostalgia diminished slightly by the fact that I wasn't sharing the experience with a friend. It turns out that theatrical magic can manifest itself in many ways beyond the stage and I found myself in the best seat in the house as the curtain parted. I don't know why this woman named Beth chose me in particular, but I never questioned her motives. At the time it seemed a perfectly natural thing to do. We chatted like strangers who have just met at a mutual friends party and I guess in a way our mutual friend was the theater. We were there to share the same experience and therefore we had something in common. The boundaries between strangers are lifted when join an audience in the theater and that's a big part of the magic. I'm sure I would have enjoyed the play immensely from the end of the row, but because of Beth it was a much richer experience.

I would like to think that it was my good karma coming full circle that moved me to decide to go alone and purchase the last single discount ticket available that turned into the best seat in the house. When Beth chose me to join her, she didn't know that I had read the article that lead me to read the book. She didn't know that I once met Moss Hart's wife, Kitty Carlisle. She didn't know that this play about one of the theater's most successful legends would resonate so deeply with me as one of the theater's least known failures. She didn't know that this former set designer would appreciate more than most the beauty of the immense revolving set, especially from such a good seat. Perhaps it was the theater gods feeling sorry for one of their poor broken hearted orphans or perhaps it was just dumb luck. In any case I feel may have appreciated and enjoyed the seat upgrade more than anyone else in the place last night and somehow this lovely woman sensed it. Thanks again Beth.

Happy New Year!

Today on new year’s eve this slightly grumpy old man was trying to remember details about past new year’s celebrations. A couple of days ago I was asked by a friend what my plans were for this year. My answer was that I don’t have any and I’m OK with that. At my age this is perfectly acceptable, but if memory serves, when I was younger, having no place to participate in some sort of new years eve ritual would have been a bit embarrassing. 

New years along with Halloween is one of American culture’s most diversely celebrated holidays. Although the origins of all the silly things we do to ring in the new year – excessive drinking, noisemaking, wearing silly hats, kissing strangers, etc. – can be sourced to ancient pagan and christian rituals from thousands of years ago, I’m not sure many people could explain why we do the things that we do on new years eve today. To this day I have never understood what would compel millions of people to subject themselves to the horrors of Times Square on new years eve. Once on new years eve I went to see a Broadway show with a large group of friends and got separated from them in the crowd trying to get to a restaurant where we had after-show reservations. I never made it to the restaurant and went home feeling a bit embarrassed that I was the only one who didn’t make it there, but secretly happy to be home in front of the TV at midnight with a glass of milk and PB&J sandwich instead of in an over crowded noisy restaurant.

My memory is a bit fuzzy on new year’s memories, but a quick survey in my head comes up with about 50-50 good and bad memories with a lot of years just blank. I guess there were a lot of years that were just unmemorable. While it can be pleasant to toast the new new year with a few close friends, I have often over the years found myself in a situation where I’m toasting the new year with one or two friends plus 20 or 30 strangers who I will most likely never see again. I think large new years eve parties are prone to collecting lots of acquaintances and friends of friends and tag-alongs which can be a recipe for boredom and/or disaster, especially when booze is being abundantly consumed. The festivities can often feel somewhat forced as you go through the required rituals. Does anybody even know what Auld Lang Syne means? 

I have happy memories of a big new years party saying good bye to 1976 and the end of the bicentennial year. I distinctly remember feeling lucky and happy to be where and with whom I was that year. I feel lucky to have been young and in NYC at a time so full of fun and unlimited possibilities. To those of us who survived, there will never be party that could come close to party that was NYC in throughout 70’s.

I also had some good times at new years eve at The LGBT Center when I worked on the Center Dance Committee. The new years parties we put on there were lots of work, but also lots of fun. One year I spent hours rigging an elaborate system to drop confetti on the dance floor at midnight. It worked well but a lot of people were pissed that their champagne glasses filled with soggy confetti before they could toast the new year. Another year I was the entertainment just before midnight in blue sequins and a red wig lip-synching like a veteran drag queen. I’m not sure who’s idea this was, but the crowd did not boo and I got to yell “Happy New Year!” at the end of the song, so they had to applaud and cheer even if it wasn’t for my performance.

I guess in retrospect the best new years celebrations are the ones that are planned carefully, so that you're with someone or several someones that you care about in a comfortable place where you want to be. Even if that means your by yourself, it’s OK as long as you can raise your “cup of kindness” and remember all the people from times gone by that made your life interesting and worthwhile. From a Scots poem by Robert  Burns written 1788 later set to a traditional folk tune, that’s what “Auld Lang Syne” means. 

Here’s to times gone by and Robert Burns!

Holiday Ambivalence and a Little Good Cheer

Every year I try to keep my expectations very low throughout the holiday season from turkey day to new years.  I’ll go to holiday parties and family gatherings when invited, and I enjoy them, but as I become more of a slightly grumpy old man I enjoy the holidays more as a spectator than active participant. When your expectations are low your disappointments are few and the pleasures are more pleasurable when they come as a surprise. You will never experience the holidays as much as you did when you were child. Look at the kid on the bouncy-horse at the end of this video. That’s the kind of simple joy that only a 3-year-old can have and will never be in your my life again. Why try? 

Because of my laissez-faire attitude toward the holidays I have been accused by friends and co-workers of being a bit of a Grinch. Once I was given a black Santa hat with the words “humbug!” embroidered on the front because I didn’t display the proper amount of enthusiasm for the season. I don’t hate Christmas and certainly don’t wish to spoil the festivities for anyone else. It’s just that I find that I don’t feel the need to wallow in the yearly round of nostalgia and good cheer that I often find forced and over-done. It also goes on way too long. Also because I’m a devout atheist, the religious aspects of Christmas are wasted on me. However, the glitter and tinsel-covered kitsch-fest that dominates American Christmas can be fun to watch. Last year I was invited by a friend who had been given tickets to the Radio City Christmas Spectacular and it was a blast. It’s like evolution has come full circle and the pagan Saturnalia rituals that early Christians adopted to celebrate Jesus’ B’day have returned to their roots as a celebration of greed and avarice. Only it’s a spectacular high-tech 21st century one with a glossy veneer of sentimentality. 

This year I was invited to a karaoke party and actually enjoyed singing a few Christmas carols after a couple of beers. The highlight, however was when a friend showed up with his friend Neil Sedaka, who joined in and sang a few his songs. For those of you too young to know, Neal Sedaka is a singer/songwriter who had a string of top 40 hits in the 60’s and wrote a lot of tunes recorded by other pop stars of the era. I don’t look like I’m having much fun in this picture and I refused to where antlers, but it was fun. Really! 

Also this year I was invited to participate in SantaCon by some friends. The idea of an all-day bar crawl wearing a Santa suit didn’t hold much appeal for me, but I did join them for brunch and two bars.  They’re a great bunch of guys and I appreciate that they will occasionally include this grumpily old man in their festivities. Both bars we stopped at were not crowded and the noise level allowed normal conversation. I was happy to wave goodbye as they headed on to more popular venues in Chelsea.

Next it’s off to see a the cabaret act of drag queen, Hedda Lettuce do her Christmas show of holiday favorites defiled with obscene lyrics. 

Defying Gravity

When I was younger I often wondered why the expression on the wrinkled faces of most old people seems to have settled into one of perpetual anger. They just look really pissed off all the time. I wonder if it’s just the natural effects of gravity pulling aging facial flesh downward or a true reflection of how it feels to be elderly – and by the way what exactly is the age when you can be called elderly? Is it the next step after becoming a senior? You know you’re a senior when you become eligible for all those senior discounts at movie theaters and museums. How do you know when you should count yourself one of the elderly? Perhaps it will be the day one of  those scruffy little twinks who work at Trader Joe's escorts you to the front of the line carrying your basket. I saw that happen twice this morning. Both of the them were women who I would definitely consider elderly. They even had canes. What if I took a cane when I went shopping? Would they let me skip the line? Would that be cheating? My knee did ache a little this morning. Am I ready to be considered elderly even though it’s just to cut the line? Probably not.

Of course now that I’m an old man myself now, I understand that getting old sucks and there’s a lot to be pissed off about. While it’s a wonderful thing to save a couple of bucks at the movies and gloat about it to my fifty-something companion, there ain’t a lot to be happy about getting old. Your body starts failing you in so many ways you hadn’t counted on. I’ve been really trying hard to keep calm and carry on and comfort myself with the fact that there are many my age in much worse shape. In the end though, gravity and nature will take their course and a face that reminds you of an old black and white photo of your great grandfather will stare back at you from the mirror. Plus other signs catch you a little off guard, like younger friends and siblings becoming grandparents. These are all things you knew were coming, but the reality of it actually happening kind of bursts the mortality denial bubble you’ve nurtured since you turned forty, – with a very loud wet popping sound. Wait. No. That was just the sound my knees make every time I stand up.  

Nothing makes you face the realities of aging like taking care of an aging parent for a while like I did last October. Mom’s 92 and she’s definitely elderly and definitely pissed off about it. All of her younger friends in their 70’s and 80’s go on and on about how incredibly fit my mom is, which she is, for someone her age, but I think she’s beginning to get tired of living up to their expectations. There are so many things she just can’t do anymore and while she seems to be accepting it gracefully most of the time, there were dark moments when I think she would have just liked to say goodbye and go on to the next thing, which of course for her is death. She’s a church-goer but more for the social aspects than the religion. She’s not really a believer in all the mystical afterlife crap. We had some nice chats about that and other things concerning her end-of-life wishes and plans. A lot of our conversations were death related. I think she was surprised that I could relate to her experience of having so many close friends die before her. Watching your friends die in your 80’s and 90's is just as unpleasant as seeing them waste away in your 30’s. We bonded over death stories. In a strange way I think it cheered her up a bit. 

Of course there are a few advantages to being old beyond the senior discounts. I can play the cranky old man card any time I don’t feel like doing something or make fun of stuff with a very special “don’t give shit” attitude that only old men can get away with. This is especially useful whenever I find myself interacting with the young folks. Sometimes when I find myself at some sort of function and have managed to engage some cute young thing who is polite enough to pretend to be interested in listening to me talk, I always enjoy going on about how much fun it was to be a twenty-something in the wild and crazy 1970’s New York and how sorry I feel for all you puppies who were born too late to have been there. I’m actually surprised by how easily some of the gen-X’s, Y’s and Millennials fall for this crap. In any case it gives me more close up ogling time. Of course the truth is that I would sell my soul to the devil to trade that ogling time for some hands on fondling time. The awful truth of Mr. Shaw’s axiom about youth being wasted on the young becomes all too real to us seniors – while I’m telling some puppy about the wild and crazy 70’s, I’d really rather be using my tongue to demonstrate exactly how we had fun back in the good old days. But I digress.

As Elaine Stritch said in her one woman show “Gettin’ old ain’t for sissies.” This old sissy, however has no choice. I’m old and I’m going to get older. If my Mom’s genes are any indication, I could stretch this out another 30 years or maybe check-out time is just around the corner. Who knows? All I can do is keep moving and try to make it the least not fun as possible, keep the grumpiness to a minimum and in defiance of gravity look for many things to smile about.

Carnage On the Streets: Reality Check

If I had an odometer on my 34 year old Motobécane touring bike I'm guessing it would register in the 6 figures in terms of mileage.  Plus I began biking in the city 6 years before that–40 years a survivor. That makes me a pretty avid and experienced cycling advocate. Our traffic commissioner Jenette Sadik-Kahn is my hero. I would vote for a fourth Bloomberg term if I knew he would keep her on. So  I freely admit when comes to the issues surrounding bicycle safety, the Citibike program and the hysteria it elicits from the 2-wheel challenged public, I am not objective.  I've spent a lot of time over the years patiently trying to educate friends and acquaintances when they make idiotic remarks about my fellow cyclists.

As an unnoticed minority I've always had a special pride in being one the few and the brave who used a bicycle for basic transportation long before there was any attempt by anyone in city government to promote or accommodate bicycles in any way. As a minority, you tend to be a little patient with the indifference and intolerance of people who only notice the worst element of your kind–sort of like if one based their perception of all gay men on the public behavior of Andrew Cunanan and Richard Simmons. The asshole that almost ran you down as you crossed the street is going to be the one you remember. However, now I have run out of patience. Assholes are assholes whether on two wheels,  four wheels or walking on two feet with their noses pointed down at their smart phones.

The success of Ms. Sadik-Kahn's efforts to get more people on bicycles combined with the rollout of the Citibikes has caused a disproportionate number of biped assholes to awaken from their touch-screen induced stupors. The foolishness began 3 years ago with the introduction of protected bike lanes. This year with the rollout of Citibikes the level of shrill and righteous indignation has been raised to new heights – the prime example being WSJ editorial board member Dorothy Rabinowitz who's over-the-top video where she looks and sounds like an SNL caricature of upper east side privilege as she bemoans our neighborhoods being "begrimed" by this horrible thing and how helpless she feels in the face of our "autocratic mayor" being lead by our "ideology blinded traffic commissioner who is ruled by the all powerful bicycle lobby." It got huge laughs when it was shown on The Daily Show. While Ms. Rabinowitz's presentation was laughable she was joined by more reasonable but equally misinformed pundits, bloggers and columnists who predicted widespread carnage and lawsuits galore. I have a four word response for all of them. Kiss my ass suckers!

While the final Carnage Score for the year, which by law NYCDOT is required to publish won't be in until early next year, there are no indications that the four-wheeled variety of transportation will loose the King of Carnage title for 2013. In the first five months of the Citi Bike program no one has been killed on one and there were mostly minor injuries with the 24 reported accidents involving Citi Bikes. I got this number from a NY Times article by Matt Fleginheimer. Also when I tried to find information about lawsuits involving Citi bikes, I could only find references to three and two of those were cases of people suing because they tripped on a docking station (one of the tripping suers was a blind man). It was interesting how many lawyer websites pop up when you do a search for Citi Bike lawsuits. To bad all the SEO work didn't seem to be producing much business for them.

As Mr. Fleginheimer said in his Times piece, officials are a little skittish about releasing too many solid statistics until the end of the year. There's two months left in the year. The first snowstorm could precipitate an unforeseen Citi bike disaster. Blood in the snow covered icy streets! In any case I will be revisiting this when the final numbers come out next year and I'm pretty confidant that there will more snarky gloating on my part. My own non-objective observation is that the common but counterintuitive theory that as bicycle ridership increases, the per capita rate of accidents goes down. The the bike lanes and traffic flow changes that my beloved Jenette has put in place have contributed the beginnings of real cultural change on NYC streets, but Citi Bikes has really made a big difference. There is generally more all around awareness between pedestrians, cyclists and motorists.

There are still plenty of assholes out there both on foot and on wheels, but we have a long way to go before we become Amsterdam or Copenhagen. I'm not sure I would want New York to become Copenhagen, which I found a bit eery because of the lack of car horns blowing there. New York wouldn't seem quite right without all the assholes in cars who think that blowing their horns has some magical power to make everything in front of them move. They always make me smile.

So fair warning to all the 2-wheel challenged who know me (you know who you are) and all those who cross my path. I am armed with facts and stats to back them up. No foolishness about me and my kind will go unchallenged.