Retrogression

“Retro” is a popular air-quote abstraction of what seems like a self-explanatory word that sums up how many probably feel with about two more days of 2016 to endure. Why look forward when I can look backward? At least I know what I’ll be getting, right? The news cycle reminds me of Bill Murray waking up to Sonny and Cher in “Groundhog Day.” Yeah, we know, the world sucks, news at 11, 11:01, 11:02…

Yesterday I wrote about how I felt for Debbie Reynolds when her daughter Carrie Fisher died.  Then of course, Debbie herself couldn’t bear the grief and died yesterday at the tender age of 84, which, to reinterate my sentiments from yesterday, is sorta kinda like late middle age now.  Betty White is no doubt unaffectedly playing with her dogs and singing the St. Olaf fight song over a large triple Jack Daniels as a hunky 25 year-old houseboy dusts her mantle in a jockstrap. R.I.P. Debbie. You came full-circle. You were funny and entertaining and one of the original unapologetic fag hags who held AIDS fundraisers long before it was fashionable. I hope they bury her in sequins with a slit up the skirt as she seemed to prefer. And although I’m kayaking down the denial river of heaven-is-for-those-who-believe-in-magic-and-miracles, I’ll take a few brain cells out of commission and hope Carrie and Debbie can now finally sit down together and not think about humanity or mental illness or Liz Taylor anymore.

So, retrogression, yeah, sounds more and more like today’s diagnosis of choice. My mood-board Tumblr seems to be be calling for a lot of old photos lately. More so than usual anyway. There’s a safe-place contentment in imagination brought on by objects of desire that are long out of reach.  As I write this I am looking out at the rainy cold grey abyss of Manhattan with a bit of a pharmecutical buzz (prescription!) and no beard (I shaved for my oral surgery) feeling like I should be in Florida on the beach making fun of the Quebec degenerates and seeing my favorite Starbucks barista Alejandro in Ft Lauderdale (swoon!). Alas, the lawyers tell me I’ll have to travel back to Ft Lauderdale soon for depositions in an ongoing lawsuit in which I am a plaintiff. Fuck it, I could use a bit of a tan, right? Booking an oceanfront suite…

Looking backwards is a byproduct of getting older. Ever wonder why people in their forties are the most vocal about the uncertainty of mortality? It’s that too-old-to-be-young and too-young-to-be-old thing I’m sure I’ve discussed before. Goldie Locks would say we’re the porridge that’s just right, but that doesn’t alleviate the mixture of fear and obscure dread that plagues us Gen-X’ers who can’t hang cohesively with the millenials but still feel schooled by the Baby Boomers. What, are we supposed to just fuck each other??? What fun is that? That’s just another cycle of sewing-circle agita and mirror-image realism that none of us wants or needs. The solution is to fuck the millennials (date?) and keep half-listening to the boomers, at least to hold on to some modicum of youth. Sounds like a nice slice of depraved half-measures cake made with all the good bad stuff we know is bad but tastes so good. Denial, with a side of zero fucks. Yeah, I’ll take it.

I think I might be a little too swayed today by my friend Oxycondone (prescription!) so I’ll sign off with this little nugget of vaseline-tinted glory:


 

 

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