Quark, Strangeness & Charm

I'm not one to obsess much over milestones because it's a game one can play indefinitely ("The 50th Anniversary of Sgt. Peppers", "The 70th Anniversary of Hiroshima", etc.), but I'll break my rule and let you know that this Monday, October 31st, will be my 60th birthday. Sixty years of...quark, strangeness and charm (thanks, Hawkwind).

This week also marks the 60th Anniversary of the Hungarian Revolution, where I was born. I find it ironic that there was fighting in the streets as I was born, and that the cacophony of street fighting somewhat influenced me into a life-long love for playing free jazz and other areas of improvisational music. By my parents' account, I was smuggled out of the country as they escaped to the USA. Contraband is my middle name.

Now that I've turned 60 I have to confess that I've started moving slower for things. I no longer run for anything - I just take my time. I've been here long enough. What's the point of running for anything? I've seen enough shit to know how things will turn out.

But in essence the importance of getting older is that there's less a feeling of guilt in general. I find it harder and harder to feel bad about anything. And even worse, I find my self-esteem rising higher and higher. I really like myself and all the things that I've done. I've lost all sense of shame. I won't dwell on self-hatred.

But all kidding aside, I've done just about everything I've ever wanted to do. I was a rock musician, touring the country and recording several albums; I've designed and made my own fashions, many of which have been featured on this blog; I worked for every strata of American government (Fed, State, County and City); I've done private investigative work, and now I'm doing what I love best, writing punk rock crime novels. If I died tomorrow I couldn't ask for a refund. I got on all the rides.

For the celebrity obsessed I've shaken hands with John Cassavetes, helped Harrison Ford at the election polls, hugged Raquel Welch, attended Julie Newmar's birthday party at her home, attended Gene Simmons' own 60th private birthday party, hung out with Iggy Pop and Shaun Cassidy at Rodney's, danced with Patti Smith and made Sun Ra smile. Yeah, I got on all the rides.

I don't cry much over terrible things that have happened in the past. Crying isn't really that cathartic and I prefer to just keep moving. anyway. My pain is a luxury I can't afford. Life is mostly loss, anyway. You lose friends who decide they hate you. You lose parents who pass away.

So what's it all about? Sex and death. Sex - getting it, dodging it from lecherous men, singing about it, writing about it - by the way, writing sex scenes in my books have always been the easiest part of my books. I don't get writers who can't knock out a decent sex scene in their novels. If you like sex then writing about it's the easiest task in the world.

Death, not just the end of mortality but the end of friendships, relationships, marriages, i.e. anything that entails someone yelling FUCK YOU as a parting shot. Life is filled with a lot of that, sometimes just a wee bit too much of it. For fuck's sake.

But still, what's it all about? I don't know. I just keep writing about people doing bad things to each other, laughing my ass off as I type away. And this week I'm listening to The Slits...Ari Up, passed away six years ago this week...Who invented the typical girl? Do a runner, do a runner....and then I hear the answer. In the beginning there was rhythm. Silence is a rhythm too>>>>>.

Happy Birthdie 2 Me

Halloween’s here and I’m another year old today. Every birthday becomes more interesting lately because I’ve passed the half-century mark. I still look pretty young for my age: yesterday some old lady called me a “sweet puppy”. I don’t know how many 52-year old men have been called a puppy this week, but I’m willing to bet they can be counted on only one finger!

Living old and looking young can be a bit frustrating, though, because people assume you’re an inexperienced young whelp based on your looks. I’ve always referred to myself as “a man of experience with the face of inexperience”. It’s weird! You may still look young but things change inside. Like what?

1. You’re going blind. No matter how large the type everything looks like little ants running across a spilled packet of black pepper. Everything looks like dots and squiggles and it’s maddening.

2. You’re going deaf. Either you’re going to have to repeat what you just said to get me to react or I’ll just nod my head and pretend I heard you. I’m a dick, sorry.

3. Something’s growing inside of me and it will take my life away from me eventually when it gets bigger. Until then I’ll smoke another cigarette. Like I said, I’m kind of a dick.

4. Remember all the fun food you enjoyed when you were 25? Well, it’s over. Your constitution can’t handle it any more. Club sandwiches are just a distant memory, peanuts are history and potatocorntortilla chips, Cheetos, and the rest of that crap are out of the picture. Vegetables for lunch, maybe turkey or tuna. Eat light…for the rest of your life, or else.

5. Just because you look like a sweet puppy doesn’t mean you can lift things any more. The only thing you’ll lift from now on is a book or a guitar. Otherwise forget it. The simplest lifting of objects will make your body fold up like a cardboard accordion.

6. You’ll get so absent minded you’ll forget where you put everything, like your wedding ring you lost last December. Your mind will be a fleeting thing.

Now that I’ve depressed you to death, how do you stay young or at least halfway humanly alert and alive? It’s actually pretty easy:

1. Never obsess over an era. It’s scary the way my peers still talk about the old punk rock days of 1977, the way my college rock pals talk about 1988, the way my grunge pals talk about 1991, etc. Yes, Mr. Dullsville those were the good old days, no they don’t make them like that any more (thank God). Live for the next moment because it will be better. I promise.

2. You never stop learning things, keep learning. Get the latest gadgets, read all you can about new computer systems, stay ahead of everything. When you stop learning you stop growing.

3. The war is over. There’s nothing sadder than an old bastard trying to play the James Dean-Henry Rolliins rebel. Even Richard Pryor backed down after awhile. Old tough guys are pathetic, so just breathe deeply and watch the world undo itself in front of you. It’s somebody else’s battle now.

4. Never forget that 99% of everyone around you is younger than you, even the fuckers that look older than you. Be patient with them, they’re very loud and annoying, yes, but just remember you were a lot like them when you were a sawed-off punk.

I’ve kept my age a partially-hidden fact because people assume all sorts of shit about age. I’m also pretty vain sometimes, just like my dad. I think I held up pretty well for a guy my age, but the best thing about turning fifty-two is being able to say “I did it all, and now I don’t have to try so hard”. Growing old is easy, but doing it well takes work.