From June 26, 1999, while still living in San Francsico: a little something I sent out to several friends via email, and came back from one of them today via hard copy to bite me on the butt and remind me just how much things do change.
While some of the writing still resonates deeply, I almost titled this post “Pity Party,” because I read these eight-year-old words and thought, “What a mess!” But then I realized they also illustrated just how far I’ve come; how much more comfortable I am in my own skin as a middle-aged man now than when I penned them.
Musings on the Parade
Tomorrow, once again the highest and most holy of holy days in the gay community is upon us: Parade Day. And tonight is the infamous Pink Party. I will not be attending either event.
Having recently turned 41 and—for all intents in the Castro community—invisible, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, pondering how to adapt to several important changes that this number brings. Most notable among them being the fact that I’m no longer turning even the few heads I used to. Almost overnight I went from being—if not good looking, at least respectably cute—to completely invisible, and I have no idea how to redefine myself in the wake of this change. I know I’m not alone when I say that those of us hitting this age have absolutely no role models to emulate, and that makes this transition doubly unnerving. AIDS decimated my generation, and those of us who remain are charting unexplored territory. What exactly does it mean to be 40- or 50-something and gay in San Francisco at the dawn of the new century?
At the risk of sounding overly sorry for myself, I am slowly coming to the conclusion that—at least in this particular community in this particular city, no one I might be interested in is going to look at—much less date—a older guy whose life is as excruciatingly non-cosmopolitan (i.e. boring) as mine. I don’t travel, I don’t do drugs, I don’t drink, I’m allergic to cats, I can’t stand Barbra Streisand, I find the “bear” movement just as off-putting and attitude-ridden as gym-bunny culture, I don’t live for White Days at Macy’s Cellar, I don’t work out, I look ridiculous in a goatee, my sex life is almost strictly vanilla, and I’m a borderline—if not a full fledged—geek. And you know, after much consideration, that’s okay.
What’s difficult is that I don’t feel any different than I did in my 20s or 30s. Okay, so I have a few more battle scars and a few more pounds. I’m hopefully a bit more world-wise and mature than fifteen years ago and I have less patience for pretense, attitude and stupidity, but other than that, I still see myself as that wide-eyed young man who arrived on these strange shores thirteen years ago, and can’t quite figure out why the guys 27, 28, or even 34 or 35—who I still see myself as—don’t seem the least bit interested in making eye contact—much less flirting—with me any more.
Somewhat painfully, what I’ve come to realize since my return to San Francisco last year after a nine-month hiatus is that The Castro is very much a place for the 20- to 30-something crowd. And I am not at all surprised that carrying around those few extra pounds (which in the 80s indicated that you were healthy and almost had guys flocking to your doorstep) is viewed with such disdain by the up-and-coming generation that defines beauty in terms of porn-star pecs and six-pack abs.
To be honest, I am totally amazed at what incredible shape these kids are in. When I was 25, neither I nor the vast number of my peers had bodies that looked like they were sculpted by Michaelangelo. Of course, we weren’t all accused of doing steroids, either…
Anyhow, I’m slowly coming to terms with all this, accepting it and at the same time realizing that in general I’m just pretty much over the whole gay “thing.” Yeah, yeah, I still love men, and I’d jump Ben Browder in a heartbeat, but this entire rainbow-bedecked-naked-men-dancing-on-floats followed by copious amounts of drugs and sex extravaganza every third weekend in June is getting so, so…tired, especially in San Francisco where being gay or bi or transexual or sleeping with your neighbor’s pet iguana is such a non-issue. C’mon people…there are more interesting things about us—even about me with my lifestyle—than what we choose to do with our genitals. At least I would hope that’s the case.
However, I must admit that the parade and ensuing pre- and post- Bacchalian events do serve a purpose, and that is to provide a fun, safe, thrilling and reassuring place of expression for the newly-minted or newly-arrived gay boys and girls in our community. That’s something I’ve been trying to explain to a couple friends who recently moved here, since they apparently feel bad that I’m choosing not to join them and participate in this weekend’s festivities. I’m certainly not trying to be a pariah, but for us older or perhaps more jaded souls, the parade lost its appeal after the fifth or sixth year (if it took even that long), and that’s not just my opinion. Ask anyone who’s been in San Francisco any length of time and you’ll hear the same sentiments. At least I was able to convince myself to attend for a couple extra years by saying there would be plenty of opportunities for photographing future painting subjects. Or rather, plenty of opportunities for taking pretty pictures of half-naked men…but how many pictures of sunlight accentuating perfectly trimmed and sculpted pecs does one really need anyway?
Then there’s the whole other issue of the AIDS epidemic wiping out almost my entire generation. A month ago, while standing in line to buy tickets for The Phantom Menace, I realized that every one of the friends who might’ve been standing in line and interested in seeing this film with me were dead. Everyone with whom I shared that special Star Wars magic from the 70s was gone: Kent, Steve, Dennis…the list goes on.
The same goes for my newly reacquired vinyl dance music collection. While I certainly have friends who are familiar with the records, they’re new friends who have totally different memories connected with the tunes; they aren’t shared memories, so the full depth of the music is somehow diminished.
This has left me at times feeling very alone and very much out of place in the world, and this sudden “invisibility” in my own community hasn’t really helped things in that respect. I thank God, or the Universe, or whatever you want to call the Is, for friends like Lei, who have the uncanny ability to tell me exactly what I need to hear at any given point in my life to help me put things in perspective. From one of her recent e-mails:
I like your lack of need to attend the damn parade to demonstrate—what? You know who you are and anyone who interests you will know who you are. Those in their 20 - 30’s are still growing into what they will be and need to make a lot of noise. That’s fine, too. It was something you went through in “old” San Francisco. We need to remember that we’ve been young before but young folk have never been old before. (Not that, from my vantage point, I consider 41 to be “old” by any means.)
I am so glad that you realize you don’t like travel, drugs, booze, Barbra Streisand or Macy’s cellar. You can enjoy knowing folks who do, even if you consider them to be a bit nuts. Some of my best friends…
I don’t feel the least bit sorry for you. I’m delighted you know yourself—as much as anyone ever can hope to—and in no way are you close to being a geek, so forget that!
What is sad to me is women/men who are so afraid of not being “with it” that they torture themselves to look, act and think like those they consider to be the ideal. They try to replace their own pleasures with what they hope is the most current. Y’see, life is set to music. You find the music that fuels your soul. Why learn all the lyrics to the latest rap song that you don’t understand just to prove—what?
You can be sure that there are many men of your gentle age, who are going through the same wonderings you are. You’ll find him—or he will find you. “Just being you ain’t bad, y’know.”
Her response was so heartfelt that it literally I brought a tear to my eye. And her very profound bit of wisdom, “We’ve been young before, but the young haven’t been old,” is really helping me keep things in perspective when I see some studly 25- or 35-year old thing walking down the street, wishing I was that tender young age again.
It’s becoming more and more amazing to me how anyone makes it through mid-life without losing their minds.
