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Whitherstream

Always hated those “I have nothing to say so why am I still doing this?” posts that have been so common on blogs the past few years as even the most committed among us have moved most of our (ahem) commentary to social media platforms or abandoned it altogether. But this is probably going to be one of those posts. Deal.

I find that I don’t want to write about current events, because current events are too horrifying and require much more analysis than I can or will give them at this point. I don’t want to write about my own life because even though I find it quite satisfying and amusing, I can’t really imagine why anyone else would. When I want to quip or to share something with “the world” I’m more likely to do it via Twitter and if I want to communicate something with my friends and colleagues, I use Facebook as often as not (although I could see myself being off that platform except for work before too long).

Actually, I’m creating a lot of content in other venues. In addition to two Twitter accounts, I’m adding content to Groceteria with a frenzy not seen in over a decade. My work (the thing I get paid for, that is) has resulted in a significant body of content, for which I’ve been awarded almost $350,000 in grants over the past five years. And I’ve published three articles in professional journals this year, one of them in perhaps the most prestigious journal in my field. I’ve also been traveling quite a bit and developing crushes on new cities–Louisville being the most recent–and I’m planning trips for August and October. I may do the traditional Toronto and/or Montréal journey a bit earlier this year to accommodate a trip to Dublin (or Seattle and Anchorage, or Winnipeg and Chicago) in the fall.

So it’s not like I’m sitting around doing nothing. I guess this platform is just the one that has to suffer right now.

Thanks again to those of you who for some reason still drop by from time to time.

And I actually am planning a “crushes on cities” post soon. A very introspective one. Really.

The lost boys

Me, seventeen years ago:

My definition of geekiness is based more on an active intellect combined with an almost childlike enthusiasm for a few really esoteric subjects (one of which may or may not be digital in nature). The “childlike” part is very important; a good geek is first and foremost a big kid.

I like to think that on some level, I’ve never really grown up. I think anyone who knows me would agree that I can seem a lot like an eight-year-old when I get excited about one of my obsessions, and it remains something I very much value in others. It was one of the things I found most attractive about my ex-husband, and I think it’s something my friends find appealing (or at least somewhat amusing) about me. And anyone who was online in the 1990s would probably agree that it’s a personality characteristic that defined much of the early development of the internet.

It’s something of a stereotype that a certain subset of gay men take that whole “childlike enthusiasm” and a youthful viewpoint (not in itself a bad thing) to an extreme, dressing like seventeen-year-olds long after they starts looking ridiculous, clubbing and partying way past the time when their bodies are able to handle it, and pretty much refusing to acknowledge that there is a future that probably should be considered.

This is kind of understandable, really. A lot of us had really unpleasant experiences in adolescence–exponentially worse than the standard teen angst, particularly if you consider both homosexuality itself and a sort of geeky and non-mainstream outlook in other areas as well–and it’s tempting to devote some of your adult freedom toward reliving that adolescence in an attempt to “get it right.” And I speak from experience here. I did this myself on some level, although “party boy” is maybe too strong a term in my case. I think I always maintained some basic functionality and at least worried about the future, even if I didn’t do much about it for quite some time.

I was lucky and I always had friends who wouldn’t have let me get away with throwing my life in the toilet, and ultimately I actually did manage to grow up at some point, at least as far as managing my life goes. Childlike enthusiasm about specific things is attractive.  Not knowing how to live your life as an adult is sad, and it’s impacted a lot of the friends I had earlier in life–gay ones disproportionately–in some very negative ways. I’m thinking about one particular friend in general, who now finds himself with no job and no prospects, and with basically no life as he exits his middle fifties, but there are a lot of people like him.

I’ve known Jack (not his real name and he won’t be reading this, nor will any of his local friends who might recognize him) since 1982 and we were really close friends for fifteen years or so. He spent most of his twenties working in clothing retail, because he was interested in fashion and because the flexible hours allowed him stay out late drinking and partying. Clubbing basically became the primary focus of his life and his career choices, which is not really all that unusual for someone in his twenties, I guess, but the problem was that he never exited that stage of life. At age thirty-five, he was still living in his parents’ basement, and any initiative or ambition from his earlier years had largely vanished. At this same age, he got a DWI, which was followed by additional DWIs. He hasn’t driven in twenty years, which is probably a good thing for the rest of us but maybe not so good for him.

By age forty, he had moved out of the basement, but had also largely stopped working in any sort of legitimate “day job” and was exclusively working in bars, most likely under the table. There were two big issues here: (1) this was the start of his exit from the world of the employable since it was the end of his traceable “paper trail”, and (2) it simultaneously exacerbated his substance abuse issues and shielded him from any sort of “reality check” that might have forced him to examine what was going on. His life became more and more about interactions with sketchy characters and becoming dependent on their assistance and on (ahem) untraceable sources of income.

Then the bar jobs ended, and Jack found himself unemployed and middle-aged, reliant on alcohol and other substances, and without a car or a license in a city where these things are almost required. He landed, with roommates, in a little house owned by his parents, where he currently lives rent-free, mainly because the house is likely not up to code and is therefore not rentable. The roommates have since moved on, and he’s on his own there, living on food stamps and a few bucks a month he gets for taking care of his parents’ yard, and relying on (mostly) sketchy friends for assistance. Somehow, though, he always manages to have beer. It’s been this way for several years and the really sad thing is that he now seems to think this is a somewhat normal way to live, as a recent issue I won’t detail here demonstrates. I guess he’s making the best of it, but its sometimes seems reminiscent of the hoarders who don’t think there is anything unusual about their lives and homes.

And I have no idea what I can do for him. I’m pretty sure there’s not much. I don’t want to give him money and be an enabler. His parents seems a bit wary of him, but I’m sure they wouldn’t let him starve as long as they’re still around. That may only be the case for a few more years, though. For a while after I moved back to Greensboro, I tried to spend more time with him and be a “role model”, which I guess was probably pretty presumptuous of me. I tried to get him in touch with some resources like Family Services. But it’s really gotten difficult to be around him–particularly when he wants beer money, though that has fortunately not happened all that often. And to be honest, I don’t want to be his only “stable” friend, because I’m not ready to be the one to pick up the pieces when the inevitable implosion happens. I don’t want to bail hi out of jail if it comes to that. And I’m not good at taking in strays; i don’t think Jack would be comfortable sleeping on the deck like my feline friend did.

There are a lot of lost boys like Jack in my life, both here and in San Francisco, and most of them were very intelligent, capable individuals who made really bad choices in life. I’ve lost touch with some of them. A couple of them have died. I fully realize there are vey complex issues with mental illness and substance abuse, a repressive society that doesn’t deal well with variation, etc. But at some point, it has to come down to taking responsibility for the consequences your own choices about how to deal with it all. And to be fair, I think Jack does this. I don’t think he blames the government, his parents, or anyone else. But this recognition needs to be followed by action, and that’s where he’s stuck.

I wish I knew how to help because I see how easily I could have gone down that path under different circumstances. I also know that I can’t really help until he decides he wants it. And I’m afraid that time may never come.

Life is too short

Really. Life is too short…

  • to deal with people who don’t make you happy if there’s no real reason to do so.
  • to spend it being perpetually outraged and/or angry..
  • to be apprehensive about doing things by yourself.
  • to eat at Applebee’s.
  • to watch stupid reality shows (including the RNC).
  • to listen to the Eagles. Or Nickelback. Or Kid Fucking Rock.
  • to have the cheap swill rather than the extra-bitter IPA.
  • to have too much of either after you hit a certain age.
  • to sleep in a bed that’s too small for you.
  • not to turn the AC down to a comfortable temperature.
  • not to mute some of your friends on social media during the RNC.
  • not to have the baba ghanoush, even if you’re eating alone and ordered a really hefty entrée too.

This is just today’s list. Additional thoughts welcome in the comments

 

The sixes

The years ending in six historically tend to be big and life-changing (generally in a positive way) for me.

To be fair, I don’t really remember 1966, but I’m pretty sure I made a lot of progress in areas like walking and talking. And in 1976, there was that whole puberty thing, which was stressful but built a foundation for something rather enjoyable. In 1986, I moved away from home, first to Myrtle Beach and then to Charlotte; it was the year I learned to live on my own. I started the website in 1996 and also quit my full-time managemeant job at Kinko’s, although the latter event didn’t completely “stick.” Ten years later, in 2006, I bought a house and survived a slight case of cancer.

I only have five more months for a biggie this year. Though I guess making tenure counts, I can’t help thinking I’m due for something else that’s significant, dramatic, and positive.

I’ll keep you posted.

The states

I used to maintain my own map. This is easier. For the record, I probably won’t be adding to this next week. It’s going to be hard to get those last five because I don’t particularly want to visit most of them.

Je ne comprends pas

So today I…

  • Made breakfast
  • Did exactly one load of laundry
  • Read for a while
  • Took the car to a drive-thru car wash
  • Bought groceries
  • Read for a while
  • Met a friend for dinner

Why am I so fucking exhausted?

Maybe I need a vacation.

Wait, I just got home from a vacation.

Dang.

Calm the fuck down

Let me start by making it clear that I am absolutely terrified by the political climate in the US right now and by the fact that we are edging precariously close to electing a racist, xenophobic, misogynistic sociopath to the highest office in the land. I fully “get it” and recognize that this is probably the most important election of my lifetime…at all levels.

I also recognize that the whole country is on the verge of having a stroke. That worries me a little bit too.

There was a time when I spent the bigger part of my life being perpetually outraged and angry. Some people who knew me at the time might suggest that it was one of my defining characteristics. I had an opinion on everything and was not hesitant about sharing it, no matter how irrelevant or inappropriate the venue nor how serious the overreaction. If you’d tell me you were going for a beer, I’d make sure you knew just how much I hoped it wouldn’t be a Coors. If you were casually listening to Axl Rose or Donna Summer, I’d make damned sure you knew exactly what awful things either had said (or was believed to have said) in the past ten years. I’m sure I was pretty annoying. I’m also sure I changed vere few viewpoints.

I really began to recognize this behavior in others when I lived in San Francisco in the 1990s, where even the most innocuous comments (e.g. “I’m off to lunch” or “It’s nice out today”) would often elicit a shrill and politically programmed response on the evils of anything from factory farming to global warming to corporatism and average wages in the restaurant industry. If I mentioned I was hungry, I might get a lecture about world hunger and how Americans were fact, lazy, and overfed. A comment about my small apartment might get me very quickly schooled on homelessness or conspicuous consumption. Yes, I’m exaggerating–though not as much as you might imagine–and yes, I was guilty of doing some of the same things, albeit with what I thought was a little more humor.

The point, though, is that at some point I realized that it’s really fucking exhausting–both for me and for everyone around me–to be perpetually outraged and angry and complaining about everything all the time. I also realized it was making people tune out a lot of what I was saying.

Is there a lot to be angry and outraged about? Of course there is.

Will this fact change if you constantly make yourself and everyone else miserable because of it? Probably not.

Things have gotten a lot worse in the past few years with social media and the rise of clickbait journalism whose purpose is not to inform but to grab audience share by whipping everyone–left or right–into a frothy, outraged frenzy by appealing to emotion and righteous anger (and adding a “share this if you agree” chaser). That’s why I’ve been doing a judicious amount of social media muting and pruning lately.

I think I it’s pretty clear that I value irony, sarcasm, and snark, and that I have a pretty low tolerance for stupidity and injustice. But I don’t feel the need to talk about what’s wrong with the world every fucking minute of my life. That doesn’t mean that i don’t care. I do. I stay awake some nights caring so much. But being outraged and morally indignant is now how I want to spend my life.

I believe the key term here is “perspective.”

This weekend I did a semi-humorous Facebook post about how sometimes I think my life might better be lived in a 1950s film noir. Most of my friends took it for what it was. One relative seemed not quite to get it. And one friend followed up completely out of left field with a response about how horrible life would actually have been for me as a gay man in the 1950s. It was not just an overreaction that missed the point of a very lighthearted comment. It was also really condescending, suggesting that I don’t understand history, which really pissed me off, considering history is pretty much what I do.

This was an old friend so I held my tongue even though it really bugged me. The whole tone of the post just reminded me of that whole shrill, strident tendency to respond to everything with a political rant that made me hate initiating a conversation with some people in San Francisco. It’s like the “angry vegan” meme where there’s a vein popping in the guy’s neck because it’s been more than five minutes since he’s had the chance to tell anyone he’s a vegan.

If I ever become that person–vegan, carnivore, or otherwise–please smack me upside the head. Thanks.

No fair

It’s been six years now since the chain of events that led to the collapse of my nine years of coupled bliss. It was an astoundingly difficult period, but I’m largely over it now and I’m pretty danged happy with my life as I’m now living it. I’ve let go of most of the little frustrations and resentments, I don’t hate my ex, and I have some perspective on the while thing, although I’m the first to admit that this perspective is a bit skewed in my own favor. But I’m pretty well past it.

There’s one nagging thing I can’t let go of, though. He ruined the fucking fair for me.

I always loved going to the the fair. It was one of the things I was most excited about when we moved back to North Carolina. The fairs here are in October, which is the only correct time of year for them. It’s cool out, and I always used to go at night, just like my family did when I was a kid. I loved it all, from the Methodist barbecue tent to the giant pumpkins to the midway to the weird booth-size dioramas in the exhibit hall. It was always my night to feel like a kid again.

I haven’t been to the fair since 2010. The ex and I were already confronting some big problems at that point and were trying to negotiate some compromises. Unfortunately, the ex chose “fair night” to do something that made me very sad in general, and also revealed to me that even though I was trying to make some compromises, a few of the lines I’d drawn were going to be crossed whether I liked it or not. It made me feel like my wants and requests were not really being acknowledged at all, which in turn made me suspect for the first time that our relationship was doomed.

This was something that probably needed to happen. I just wish it hadn’t happened at the fair, thus pretty much casting a pall on something I’ve always really kind of loved and making me associate it with one of the saddest nights of my life. It’s  like asking your spouse for a divorce on his birthday, or running over his puppy on Christmas morning. It sucks and I’ve never quite been able to forgive him this one thing. The whole night bothered me so much that I even deleted all my photos and videos of it so I wouldn’t run across them by accident…which is something that I just don’t do.

It’s funny the little sad things you hang on to even as you manage to eliminate most of them from your life: a song that reminds you of a failed romance when you were twenty, a note from your dad apologizing for something that both of you still remember vividly though you don’t want to admit it, your last photo of a friend before a fatal argument, etc. That this should be the one heartbreaking thing I take away from a failed long-term relationship is both surprising and completely appropriate. As a couple, we both felt and acted like big kids. This was the night that pretty much ended for me.

Videolog: Welcome to the Boomtown


David & David
Welcome to the Boomtown (1986)

Thirty years ago this week, I was 22 years old and moving to Charlotte, where I would be renting a flat in Elizabeth for $230/month, and (soon) opening a surf/skate shop across the street from Eastland Mall.

This was playing on the radio.