On your 50th birthday

*sigh*

So. How's junk?

Lots happened since we saw you last, looking (forgive us) less than your best in that sterile chamber; silent, save the regular beeps and whirrings of all that infernal machinery.

Where to start? Chronologically: an election was stolen, the twin towers (and a nation's optimism) reduced to dust, a war or two. We've fallen in (and out of) love. Worked several jobs.  The writing briefly took off, then stalled. In short, life has been occurring. Time has its pedal to the metal these days; milestones fly by in a dizzying blur.

Some developments you'd find interesting: marriage equality and the supreme court stare each other down at the OK corral. Soon our soldiers will be allowed to be gay, honest and employed – all at the same time. A recent rash of homo teen suicides has God's favorite country shaking its head and tossing the word "tragic" around like frisbees at a picnic (we suppose we should be grateful that suddenly it's "tragic"). There's even a YouTube phenomenon called "It Gets Better," where hundreds of well-meaning folks, famous and not, have posted video platitudes for gay youth about how everything gets better.

It's a lovely lie. You knew that better than anyone, having made one clumsy attempt in your youth. Suicide happens when "tomorrow" is too long and terrible a road between "today" and "it gets better." What's more, it doesn't "get better." But we do develop spines. We grow into our armor. Those slings and arrows become easier to deflect.

The two of us are of a certain era, aren't (weren't) we? We're the ones who came of age while watching the ones we adored morph by the dozen from "happy, youthful and vibrant" to "blind, emaciated and incontinent," sometimes in the space of a month.

Our coping mechanism was withdrawal. Numbness over fury. We seldom cried. But now in our 46th year, the ice has thawed a tad. The novocaine's worn off. Some of us are lonelier that we'd prefer to admit. There are so many of you we miss. Maybe we drink more than we ought.

Middle age crises strike every man, of course. Suddenly we feel a tender brotherhood with the poor sap we used to ridicule; the one driving his Corvette down the avenue, hair plugs to the wind, Huey Lewis blaring on the stereo. A lesson you'll mercifully never learn: it's terrifying for a dude, waking up to discover he's past his prime. But enough about us.

What an infuriating, original, beautiful and flat-out cra-zay-zay creature you were. The consummate host who could (and frequently did) clear a room with a venomous remark. You were the big brother we never had, and we fought accordingly. Often. But lord, how you were loved. By everyone.

Your final night on terra firma, we got what we knew would be our last look at you. The faint furrow in your unconscious brow, your body heaving slightly as you refereed the hushed battle between AIDS and your respirator, those impossibly blue eyes clinched shut. Somehow we wound up on the floor, our cheek against the lime green tile of Beth Israel's terminal ward, our nose filled with Pine-Sol clean. We never cried harder or longer, before or since.

Through the alchemy of time, we turn around and a decade separates us from the tiled floor of Beth Israel. We can still smell the Pine-Sol, though.

Remembrance has its irony. We're the big brother now, to the memory of that sweet man on cusp of 40, hooked up to a breathing machine. Funny, isn't it? Life's unexpected reversals.

It's a beautiful autumn Sunday. The air's crisp, the sun brighter than it has a right to be, the sky so blue it borders on cruelty. So...

So we raise a glass (ginger-ale, tonight) to your miserable, glorious, bi-polar, gorgeous ass.

Happy birthday, B.

You would have been fifty today.

xox
WAM

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Comments

[CG]

sucked then, sucks now. I miss him. Thanks for writing this.

[Whup-Ass Master]

That means more than you know. Thank you. And you're welcome

xox
WAM

[jwb3]

I don't know anything, but, I do feel the emotion written here. You are still an amazing writer.

[Whup-Ass Master]

@jwb cubed: this was an ode to a friend. we celebrate our friends. That includes you.

xox
WAM

[Psychocat]

Sounds like your friend was quite the firebrand, and a wonder to know. I am saddened by your loss. (((HUGS)))

=^..^=

[ellie]

x

e

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But now, Lay-Ga...now we're concerned for your mental health. How we wish we could have read your mind today when you stood before your vast wardrobe. We're more than a little curious about the thought process that caused you to strap a JC Penney's "naughty grandma" underwire bra over your Mary Poppins blouse, hike up a pair of crotchless satin Depends, and secure a Charo wig to your noggin with what appears to be the wrapper from a Hickory Farms "deepest sympathy" cheese and fruit basket.

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blouse, hike up a pair of crotchless satin Depends, and secure a Charo wig to your noggin with what appears to be the wrapper from a Hickory Farms "deepest sympathy" cheese and fruit basket.

We're certain it seemed like a good idea at the time. But you look like you're attending the funeral of your sanity. See here's the thing. You're a trend-setter. Do you really want the entire world to start wearing their underoos as outerwear? Have you given the slightest thought to the potential ramifications? For starters, it would force us to cover our furniture in plastic. Is that what you really want?

You look like (pick one):

Morgan Fairchild in a very special Lifetime movie-of-the-week called "Not Without My Mom-jeans," the heart warming story of a woman who goes into mourning when The Gap discontinues their line of high-waisted acid wash stretch pants
The winning design from that episode of Project Runway where Heidi Klum gives the designers one day to stitch together a wardrobe for the soon-to-hit-the-toy-stores Bi-Polar Barbie
A publicity still from "I Was an Incontinent Space Widow," a daring independent film directed by Darren Aronofsky and starring Charlize Theron, which swept the awards at Sundance

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Um...Lady?

Ms. Gaga?

Hi. May we call you Ga? Why are you staring at us? Is that a "no"?

So, what do you say we hop the next spaceship to Planet Claire and order a pitcher of Supernovatinis? Or we could just go to TGI Friday's and slam back some fuzzy navels...same diff, really. Doesn't that just sound marvy? We KNOW!

Listen. Here's the deal. You're a serious broad. And we've resisted writing this BNoFC because you're fully aware (indeed, you're the architect) of your craziocity. And anyone who ridicules your LSD-inspired wardrobe is woefully UNaware that the joke is on them. You are begging to be talked about. You frequently leave the house having remembered to bobby-pin a Judy Jetson wig to your noggin, yet somehow you always forget the pants. Beyond that, while we rather enjoyed the rumors that you serve your hair pie with a side of kielbasa, we also strongly suspect you were the one behind that particular meme. You are, as our Beantown friends might say, "wicked smaht."

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blouse, hike up a pair of crotchless satin Depends, and secure a Charo wig to your noggin with what appears to be the wrapper from a Hickory Farms "deepest sympathy" cheese and fruit basket.

We're certain it seemed like a good idea at the time. But you look like you're attending the funeral of your sanity. See here's the thing. You're a trend-setter. Do you really want the entire world to start wearing their underoos as outerwear? Have you given the slightest thought to the potential ramifications? For starters, it would force us to cover our furniture in plastic. Is that what you really want?

You look like (pick one):

Morgan Fairchild in a very special Lifetime movie-of-the-week called "Not Without My Mom-jeans," the heart warming story of a woman who goes into mourning when The Gap discontinues their line of high-waisted acid wash stretch pants
The winning design from that episode of Project Runway where Heidi Klum gives the designers one day to stitch together a wardrobe for the soon-to-hit-the-toy-stores Bi-Polar Barbie
A publicity still from "I Was an Incontinent Space Widow," a daring independent film directed by Darren Aronofsky and starring Charlize Theron, which swept the awards at Sundance
That long lost episode of Love Boat, wherein cruise director Julie McCoy spikes the punch with ecstasy causing Charo to hurl herself overboard, whereupon her distraught lesbian lover Donna Mills disrupts a shuffleboard tournament with her shocking announcement that her girdle's been possessed by beelzebub.
Bloody hell.

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