The view from my window

Recesssion and depression

I feel like the rest of the world just got in sync with me philosophically. After making and spending lots of money, its kinda like "OOOK, is that all there is?" Which lead me first to recession in that I receded from the whole rat race for a while because it didn't make sense. Then to depression where I feel like "What is the point of this whole (capitalist) world?" With the rest of the world now following, I actually kinda feel more connected and sympathetic.

I appreciate that more wealth as a society is a good thing if it prevents people from being hungry and homeless. But the aritificially created "boom" of the past 25 years did not. The poverty rate is basically what it was 30 years ago.

For the majority of Americans the whole "boom" resulted in both parents working, for longer hours, with less job security and no retirement benefits . Yeah, we bought more and bigger things but most of that was on credit. Yeah, we got 401Ks but most Americans are now worse off than they were with guaranteed pension benefits which came with the stable, working class job that paid a living wage.

So who won? The rich, those who focused on making money for money's sake, the egotists (Ayn Rand) and the randomly lucky.

It took a huge implosion for anyone to care about the declining standard of living of THEMSELVES. We were distracted by "Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous" and "The Simple Life" from the reality of our economic situation. This (self) deception was masterfully facilitated by the predatory credit card/mortgage industry which allowed the average person to have the life they saw on TV without the money. And now we get the surprise at the bottom of the Cracker Jack box - bankruptcy.

So I feel united with the world for the first time in a long while. We are going to dig ourselves out of depression and learn from it lessons that will make ourselves and our society better, happier and more fulfilled.

Hope

I can’t stop crying today. I didn’t expect it. But, last night, watching Obama cry – or more accurately, shed tears – talking about the death of his grandmother unleashed a torrent of bawling. Then watching the Obama family cast their votes in Chicago this morning, I choked up again.

I know I’m naturally sentimental but it still confused me. I don’t understand where this wellspring of emotion came from. I think it may be the realization - after 8 years of feeling that the majority of people in this country are mean-spirited evangelicals who believe in punishment rather than helping one another - that hope is worth holding onto, that the world isn’t such a cruel and heartless place, that people do care about each other and that our country does have the ability to be a transcendent beacon of possibility for a better world.

Maybe it is also the realization that the long, tortured journey that I started in the 1980s to live the life I wanted and to be accepted by society is coming to an end. An end that I hadn’t thought possible except for a brief period in 1992 when Clinton was elected – and before it was eviscerated by the reaction to his attempt to eliminate anti-gay discrimination in the military.

I know I’m setting myself up for the same disappointment I had 3 months into the Clinton presidency but this time it seems more real and sincere. No matter what happens next, the fact that the majority of America can vote for someone as human, sensitive, smart and liberal as Obama gives me hope and makes me reevaluate my cynical view of the world. I feel the desire to contribute again. I have hope that my efforts can create change. It may take 40 years and a lot of pain in between, but change can happen. It wasn't linear, its not perfect, but the dreams I had of who I wanted to be and what I wanted society to be have come pretty damn close to reality.

Hope is worth holding onto.

Where to now?

Hitting the big 4-0 has been a real shakeup for me. I’ve always viewed 40 as the end. Not in the youth-obsessed, “I’m too old” way. I just have always bargained with God/Fate to just let me live to 40.

It started when I was 16 and coming out in the mid-80s. I assumed I would die from AIDS. I just wanted to have some life first. For years, I assumed I had 3 years to live because I never got an AIDS test. I just assumed I was positive because I had done stupid things – being a repressed, horny teenager with access to the backrooms and baths of Philadelphia but without the self-esteem or self-control required to be 100% vigilant about safe sex.

Then after the miracle drugs came out, I had various family members get cancer around 40 so I was able to sustain the fear of an early death. This was coupled with seeing my Dad work 16 hour days his whole life and then die before he could enjoy retirement or relaxation.

It shaped my life. My life plan was to work and make some money early so I could take a “retirement” by 35 and enjoy my last years before I died. Kind of like a compacted life. I told myself that if I could have that “full” life experience, I could die happy.

And I can. I feel like I’ve had a wonderful, full life and have done most of the things I’ve wanted and am grateful that I’ve lived this long.

Now the question is “what do I do next?”. I know that I now need to save for the real retirement at 65-70 and that kind of terrifies me. What if I live to 80? How am I going to pay for it? I want to do something that I enjoy so my days are not spent in the misery of Wall Street working for nasty, vicious people. But I also know that finding a job will get increasingly difficult in the next 2 decades. So I need to make money while I can.

I would like to work for 30-40K a year and have minimal stress. But what happens when I’m laid off at 55? I will have saved no money and getting any job will be difficult.

The cruelty of life after 40 is settling in. And I’m appreciating why money becomes so important. Without it, there is no safety net.

Cityfile

Cityfile is the new Gawker. It gets to the heart of what people liked about Gawker but without the silly bullshit about nobodies like Julia Allison, Kristian Laliberte, etc. I get enough of those annoying, egocentric, spoiled brats wandering around the West Village.

Cityfile is the real deal because it talks about the people New Yorkers really care about – people with money and power who are not necessarily household names. Like the obscure hedge fund titans who you never hear about but who are more essential to NYC than Tinsley Mortimer.

Gawker is a clique of self-referencing, self-promoting, incestuous trust fund kids. Cityfile has the potential to be a class-warfare tool - assuming it isn’t shut down or neutered by lawsuits from the high-priced lawyers that the profile subjects will undoubtedly sic on it. But kudos to Remy Stern for kick-starting the backlash against the new aristocrats. Viva la revolucion!

San Francisco

So I just returned from a week in San Francisco (and the Redwoods). I used to go every year, but took a 3 year hiatus as I dealt with life issues. Thoughts:

• Beautiful. Sun, ocean, mountains. Truly one of the most beautiful places in the world.
• Old. I was shocked how much older everyone seemed than NYC. The average age of guys in the bars was probably 55 with a range from 32 to 82. I don’t remember it being so old but I guess it’s the same people who were there 18 years ago just older. It made me feel less over-the-hill than NYC which was nice but also made me contemplate what gay old age will look like. Which brings me to…
• Lots of drinking. I was amazed at how much people drank (and I’m no teetotaler). When I went to Starbucks in the Castro at 9 AM, the bar next door was already full. At 2 PM, most of the bars in the Castro were happening. And the same people were there at 8PM.
  It seems like many of the barflies are retirees without much to do. And I guess there are PTSD issues from AIDS and growing up in a pre-gay era as well as the absence of any role models for what to do when one is no longer young but still a gay horndog. But it did make me think about what I will do with my free time when I no longer have to work and many of my friends and family have died. I need to find healthy hobbies that will keep me from spending my golden years chasing momentary pleasures.
• Meth. I forget how prevalent it is out West. I don’t see it as much in NYC. But in the Castro, I must have seen a dozen people in a bad state. In one bar, this meth-crazed 25 year old kept bouncing from person to person to try to get sex. It was sad, disturbing, awkward and annoying. It made me remember that San Francisco’s focus on pleasure, beauty and indulgence can be toxic for young gay men. Its much easier to lose focus than NYC where you always are kept in check by reality.
• Leather bars are the Knights of Columbus of gay men. It seems like they keep trying to keep the leather bars going despite sparse attendance and absence of any sexual activity. I went to the new Chaps II and there was one 75 year old guy in full leather regalia who told stories (like my 80 year old uncle-slow, rambling, and wholly unconcerned with the listeners level of interest) about the “old times” which made me realize how specific the leather thing is to an earlier era. Wearing full leather now is like wearing a circle skirt and a bouffant in the 70s. As interesting and fun as leather can be, young gay men don’t see themselves as purely sexual animals anymore. They like to envision themselves as just another Ozzie and Harriet couple blending in with the straight culture. I grew up on the leather bars of Amsterdam so I have a great fondness for them. But I’m beginning to accept that it’s a dated concept from a different gay era.
• Life is the same regardless of the backdrop. Yeah, its nice to have a view of the hills and ocean and temperate weather, but eventually you stop noticing the same surroundings you saw yesterday and focus on life - relationships, job and health. Perhaps it would be nice to wake up every morning and look at flowers instead of concrete. But then my shades are closed and my sole focus is the first cup of coffee. And the thing I most want to see in the morning is my lover next to me.

Mothers Day – Ambivalence

I spend a lot of time trekking down to suburban Philadelphia to see my Mom - almost every weekend lately. So even though it was Mothers Day, this weekend’s trip was standard procedure.

R comes with me most weekends. I know it ain’t fun for him but he (usually) is willing to help me through it. Plus he gets to do laundry at her house so we don’t have to deal with the Laundromat across the street that sporadically catches on fire if you put more than 2 minutes on the dryer.

But this weekend, I realized I’m burning out. She just wears me down after a while.

Conceptually, I appreciate her. I know she has sacrificed a lot and would do anything for me. And I feel obligated to take care of her.

Yet, the thought of ever having to live with her full-time terrifies me. She is way too high maintenance – even though she tries not to be. She is who she is and that can be really wearing at times.

Like this weekend. When we arrived, she was cutting hedges. Which in my mother’s passive-aggressive communicating style, is a request for me to cut the hedges. She knows that I am unable to let my 73-year old mother who has a lame right hand cut the hedge with the electric hedge-clippers.

So after driving 2 ½ hours, I had to get out of the car and immediately start cutting hedges. Even though the hedges are only about 1 inch too high - in spots. God forbid a leaf should grow out of line.

Then, after cutting and cleaning the hedge, we have tea and she launches into part 2 of the “get Michael to do as many chores as possible” campaign which constitutes weekends with my mother.

She just was so curious that she had to pull up a corner of the wall-to-wall carpeting in the upstairs bedroom to see what the floor looks like. And it looks OK - though there is a “little nothing” nailboard around the entire edge where the rug can be stapled to the floor. Should we look at it? No, no, no not now…Finish your tea… Well, do you want any more tea? Are you sure? OOOK. Welll….

Finally I break down and go upstairs to look at the goddamn rug. She gets down on her hands and knees and starts to crawl into the corner where she pulls up the corner of the rug. And sure enough there is a medieval looking 1-inch strip of board with nails sticking up adhered to the entire perimeter of the room. I tried to explain it’s a big job. She says “Really? You think? I think it would come up pretty easily”

I try in vain to point out the 100s of nails that attach the nailboard to the floor, the imperfections that will remain after the rug is removed, the possibility that this task could be done next week. I know its futile. She is like a waterfall that just pulls you down until you go with the flow.

At some point, its like she just doesn’t even hear what I’m saying – which is possible since she is apparently losing her hearing. Not that I’m supposed to know. I realized that she surreptitiously had a hearing aid put in when, while hugging her hello, I heard loudspeaker-type feedback coming from her head. She never mentioned it. And neither did I.

So, I give in and start the process of rearranging the furniture and pulling up the rug. All the while she circled energetically, moving things that she could and otherwise acting like a mosquito buzzing a cow.

I understand how she got this way. And I empathize. But it doesn't make it any less challenging.

Born on an island in the middle of nowhere, her dream of big city life was fulfilled when, in one of many cruel twists of fate, her father died at 11. Her mother, unable to provide for her 7 children, sent her and one sister to live with her father’s brother in New York. Though it allowed the girl from an island on civilization’s edge to escape to the island at the center of civilization, the abandonment has left scars.

One of which is an obsessive case of domestic pride – an attachment to the idea of home which, having once been lost, is now the most important thing in her life. Another of which is the fear of anything smelling remotely of poverty or want – like an old rug or overgrown hedge.

So I do my duty. Out of love. And guilt. And gratitude. But not without a little griping.