Why the Age of Love Didn’t Last
Whenever I watch movies like The Trip (the 1967 LSD movie, not this year’s buddy comedy) or read books like The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test I always lament that I was born in 1975. Let’s face it, the 1980′s, ’90′s, 00′s, and this decade are nothing remotely like the late 1960′s and early 1970′s, for better or worse. When acid was catching on around the nation, along with the idea of “dropping out” there must have really been an aura in the air….the world was changing. It must have been like discovering magic.
Nothing changed, of course. Sooner or later the hippies “cleaned up their acts,” had kids, got jobs. And now when we look back at that era people look, well, pretty ridiculous:
What nobody ever says about the 1970s is that the hippies were doomed to begin with for the simple reason that they were aging. Put a hot young chick in bell bottoms. People will watch. Put a forty year old mother in bell bottoms and she’s a buffoon.
The hippie vision didn’t come to fruition because there was something inherently cool about these young or youngish people, but it wasn’t because they experimented with drugs, practiced free love or wore psychedelic clothes. At heart it was because they were young and doing something that was different. More importantly: something exclusive. People who didn’t “get it,” i.e., older people, weren’t allowed to join. But man, they must have wanted to.
It makes me think of a song I just heard called “Armed.”
The chorus:
We are young, no rules to follow
Hold hands, no promises, no demands
This is a song from this year. I heard it at a summer bar “scene” in Norway. Hot 20 year-olds all around. And I definitely didn’t fit in.
The hippies were chained to the fashion of the times, just as, say, flappers were in the 1920s. They all knew that they got it. But when the next generation came in, in this case, 80s go-getters (think of Alex P. Keaton cutting down his parents), the younger ones looked at the older ones and thought…”such silly beliefs…” “such odd costumes!”
So there you have it. You won’t be respected for the music that you like and it’s too late for you to get into Taio Cruz.
There is nothing that you can do.
Going Without Going
There’s a bit that Jerry Seinfeld used to do that went something like this: when you are inside, all you want to do is go out, but when you are outside, all you want to do is go in.
In my free time I obsess over this yin and yang. I want to be able to do what I love doing all day. I love watching movies, for example, but I can’t watch more than 2 or 3 in a day. I simply can’t–even though I want to. My eyes start hurting. Movies seem like a…chore. I’ve got to do something else!
But the stupidest thing is that I can’t accept this simple fact of life. Years go by and every single day I believe that I can really do whatever I want.
If you think that these thoughts are silly, consider the way that young people look at themselves.
I’ll always look like this.
I will never die.
We look at marriage in the same way. Surely, that will make us happy forever.
Children look at toys like that.
Adults look at iPhones like that.
But what blew my mind a few days ago was that I realized sometimes just fully imagining the thing that I want is the same as actually getting it. And it all comes from getting older.
Here is what happened:
I woke up and I had nothing to do–completely bored after being in my apartment for a week without working. I then realized that I was invited to a weird board game place in Oslo that I had never heard of. There were new people to meet. This was exactly the type of thing that I love.
So I planned the whole thing: trains, expenses, and mentally went through every step in the journey, including some reasonable predictions that I could make about the evening itself, i.e., how much or little fun I could have.
I was all ready to go. I told the organizer that I was coming.
And then as soon as everything was in place I felt like I had already gone.
And I didn’t want to go.
So I stayed home.
It was exactly what I wanted.
From 20 to 35
I have finally reconciled the fact that I no longer look like I did when I was 20–or even how I looked when I was 26. I now accept the fact, for example, that I am losing my hair. I don’t love it. Don’t get me wrong. But on a physical level I am now aging gracefully.
On a social level, however, my age gets on my nerves.
I am, let’s face it, attracted to younger women. I am also single. I would therefore like to be able to be in social situations where there are younger women. That isn’t so strange, is it?
In many ways I also think the same way that I did when I was ten years younger. I act the same. Yet I am not welcome in events with younger women. Sure, I can go. There is no law against it. But I don’t really belong there, as I have said before.
As an aside, I sometimes dream of building up a beach/club area somewhere devoted to people who are 35 and older. The closest thing that comes to this, by the way, may be the Bottle & Cork in Dewey Beach, Delaware. A few summers ago I saw overweight people, in some cases, who I went to high school with, trying to have sex with ladies with bad skin. It was, well, gross. I’d like a place with less emphasis on sex and more emphasis on dating. But that is a whole other point.
All I would like to do today is share the way that my mind was when I was 20 and the way that it works now.
I remember quite clearly being 19 and an actor at a community theater in Maryland. A rather large Shakespearean actor in his thirties shared the stage with me in Macbeth. When he found out that I was going with my friends to Panama City, Florida, for spring break he asked if he could go with me. I thought that it was crazy that he was asking that. I wanted to be nice. But I could not fathom having this 35 year old man hanging out with us. I knew that it would just, well, ruin the trip–ruin everything cool about it. Alas, that is how it is for me now. I am this man. I am currently in Barcelona, for example, and people are no longer giving me flyers for clubs.
Similarly, when I was 20, I dated a 35 year old. She reminded me a bit of Maggie Seaver from Growing Pains.
The two things that I always think about this experience:
1. Though she was attractive, I remember thinking at the time that her skin looked, let’s say, leathery compared to mine.
2. She got very serious and romantic with me…almost instantly, whereas I wanted to take my time and, well, enjoy the sex.
Flash forward to today. A few months ago I dated a 21 year old. I am quite sure that my skin looked leathery to her. And I, like the 35 year old I knew, wanted to get into a relationship very fast with her, whereas she did not.
Ah, life as a 35 year old. I get it. It doesn’t mean that I have to like it.
A Welcome Drying of the Sponge
A very good friend of mine once had a razor-sharp mind and a powerful memory. And then something happened about seven years ago. Drugs? Marriage? Complacence? I don’t know. But now this poor guy can’t remember a single thing–well, not too much, anyway. His friends all have to reconstruct his memory for him–at least it always seems that way to me.
He’s 35, by the way. Not 75.
Now that I am in Norway I can feel something similar going on with my ability at learning new things. Back in the day I could learn quite a bit of vocabulary in a foreign language–200 words, say, in a few days. Now when I stare at my Norwegian textbook I can’t even learn 10 words. Right now I think it would literally take me an hour or two of mental mind tricks, memory cards, and finger puppets just to remember the words for plate, knife, and spoon.
I don’t think it is 100% mental atrophy. Some of it is just complacence. There is no need to learn Norwegian, after all, because everyone speaks English here.
But whatever is causing it . . .ahh . .it is kind of like lying in a big and cool mattress of down.
Ignorance is bliss.
Antiques … and Gradually Becoming Them
Correct me if I am wrong, but on some level, life is all about mentally separating what is essentially you (your friends, family, things that you like or love) from what you know is essentially not you (enemies, and anything else that you do not like or do not get).
The mistake that just about everybody makes is that we want all of the elements for both of these categories to be fixed. And then when we realize that something has changed, well, that’s where the moral or psychological collapse can come in, no?
The first time I suppose that this happens is when you have to make that switch from “hating boys” or “hating girls” as a kid and then suddenly secretly feeling inside like, “Oh my God, I don’t hate boys (or girls) . . I love them!”
Well, I went through a similar feeling yesterday when I drove my “new” car. New. Right. It is a ’94 Daihatsu Charade. Never heard of it? Me neither.
So I’m driving a while yesterday around Norway and I take a look at the dashboard and all I can say is, well, I felt a feeling of love. For all intensive purposes, I was inside an antique. The car is from the 90s! Jeez, they certainly don’t make dashboards like this anymore (though this picture looks like it is of a British car, the interior is pretty close):
Pay extra attention to the little heat and air conditioning panel. I love it!
I’m in a time machine!
And just like that, I understand antiques. Old dudes walking around looking for gramophones aren’t any “lamer” than loving Justin Bieber.
The things that we love are . . .us.
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Hall and Oates, Then and Now
Channeling Fellini
There are some films that you force yourself to watch and regret doing so, such as Bad Lieutenant (well, I stopped after 10 minutes so I guess I really can’t complain), and there are other films that touch you…that either solidify your own views on life or radically change them.
Such was the case for me on Sunday with Fellini’s 8 1/2.
Though it took me many times to get all the way through it I can now say that the film is remarkable…beautiful…I get it and I am happy that I do.
I still don’t get any of the silent film comedians and why people enjoy watching them, but I guess I can’t have everything.
Anyway, what touched me in particular was the harem scene.
You can watch the scene right here.
Start at the 4 minute mark.
The gist is that there is a woman who is now 26 and on the bring of dispair. It is the rule of the harem that she must go “upstairs”. She is no longer Guido’s plaything, as she is too old.
The scene encapsulates the painful contradiction that burns within me and, I would argue, most men.
You watch the scene and know that it is wrong. Guido is whipping the women around! You feel pity for all of the women. Guido is not a good man!
But a few scenes later you see Claudia, clearly under 25
And you understand exactly how Guido feels.
The beauty of youth fuels him.
Claudia in her silver years would not
Again, it is wrong. But the lust-creativity-love feeling is so strong that you just have to understand why so many problems happen between men and women.
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The Fairy Tale that They Need to Create
Maybe this blog should be called “The Beauty Blog” instead of “Carpe Diem,” since, as you have probably noticed by now, the subject of beauty comes up quite a bit.
I suppose that the last time I talked about it was when splatpoints came up. I’d now like to mention a simple fairy tale that needs to be created.
Little girls are bombarded with the idea of princes whisking them away. Little boys are inculcated to believe that the most beautiful woman is always the most desirable.
No fairy tale addresses the simple truth that beauty fades with age.
And, sadly, since I was a boy who grew up on television and movies, almost exclusively, I had to figure out myself this sad, sad fact.
Well now that I have reached my own splatpoint, I’m coming to accept the fact–not only that beauty fades–but that in the end it is meaningless. Everyone grows old. Everyone eventually looks, well, hideous. In the end it isn’t important.
We should only care about the inside. Those after school specials were right!
And I only wish that I had seen a fairy tale about it long ago.
Imagine, for example, a prince choosing the less beautiful, but smarter heroine. The beautiful one becomes a nasty and angry and bitter shrew (art imitating life, no?) The less beautiful one stays the same throughout her life.
Or a couple that grows gray and gross but then goes on to the next life and only because the man chose the right woman (not the prettiest woman) do they become beautiful in heaven.
Say goodbye to Beauty and the Beast.
Say hello to Beast and the Beast.
Maybe this is the point of Shrek? Of Mike & Molly?
Maybe pop culture is headed in the right direction, but I am still living in the world of Sleeping Beauty.
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The Plight of the Balding Man
So I have brought up the idea of losing one’s (i.e., my) hair before. If you are like me, and you aren’t losing your hair, I know you couldn’t give a rat’s johnson, but I hope today to make a point that perhaps you have never thought of in your life, such as when Larry David brought up the idea of being called a “bald asshole” a hate crime.
All I’d like to say is that for a person who is challenged-’o-scalp, a man has two options:
1. Get a hair transplant, move to another city, and NEVER TELL ANYONE UNTIL YOU DIE
2. Go au naturel and think, “Someone will appreciate my bravery”
And that is literally . . . it.
Should Older People Be Pitied?
On my other blog I once mentioned the pity-self-hate-and-pat-on-the-back cycle. The idea, in short, is that there are things in this world that we see and feel pity for (such as a stray dog with a missing eye). We then hate ourselves because we know that we shouldn’t pity certain creatures (such as a homeless man with a missing eye). And then when we stop pitying the creatures we pat ourselves on the back for finding a way to treat the being as an equal.
Love is the the goal, right? Not pity.
But sometimes I am in situations with older people and I just can’t control myself. I feel pity. And then I picture myself being the older person and I wonder, “If I were him, would I want to be pitied?”
And you know what I think? Yes, I think I would. I wouldn’t reject the pity.
The specific situation that made me think of all of this was I was at a large meet-and-greet dinner a few weeks ago and I had to sit with an older man the entire time. He’s Norwegian, grizzled, has incongruous tattoos on his arms, and is well-read. A nice guy, but he talked my ear off the whole time.
During the dinner he made allusions, many times, for us meeting again. He wanted me to come over his house so he could chop some wood for me. I’m not kidding. I’m in Norway, remember.
It didn’t stop there. He gave me his business card. He implored that I called him.
I said that I promised I would.
A few days later I got an email from him. It reads:
“Hi,
I think you were the one I had the pleasure of sitting next to during the dinner. I have not forgotten that I promised to fix some kindling for you. Just get in touch, and I will make you a bag or two for free. ”
So I responded to the email right away and said sure, any Sunday evening is fine with me.
But I feel rather strange about the whole situation.
The man can’t become my “friend.” We have nothing in common. I won’t get anything out of the bonding (except, of course, the wood). So it really comes down to me doing something nice for somebody else without any reward. And isn’t that pretty much a case for the pity files?
Incidentally, I once befriended an elderly German man. He helped me study for a German test and had me over for tea on many afternoons. When I moved to Sao Paulo I sent him an email and said if he ever wanted to visit, he could surely do so.
He hopped on the next plane and came.
He, quite frankly, embarrassed me when he was there. When we walked by dudes playing dominoes he grabbed dominoes and told the men, in German, that they were making mistakes. He told a friend of mine that he looked like the Devil. He walked into my bathroom while I was taking a shower.
He might have been gay, by the way, but that’s another story.
So back to my wood-cutting man, I really don’t know what to do. I want to be a nice guy. I want to do the right thing. But I don’t think a pity party is an ideal relationship, do you?
As of right now I’m hoping that he just won’t email me back.
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