Crap-My-Thong

I feel old. Not crazy old, but old enough.

I mean, I’m not that old. But, Thanksgiving Night on Long Island, after the turkey is ‘et, I’m old enough to realize that the reason there’s no other people my age in the bar is because people my age are old. Or, rather, they are at home. Doing nice things. With their spouses and children. And their parents, who are really, very seriously old.

Anyway, dinner was nice.

My mother had accidentally double dosed on her Selexa, so she wasn’t fussing about anything, really.

My father was more concerned with the rewards of his newest hobby – garage sale scouring – and was pretty heavily involved with a lamp he’d bought whose shade, incidentally, was made of hand-carved, peach-colored marble. Mmm!! Delicious!!

My grandfather was getting all Memento down at his end of the table:

Him: “So. You happy?”

Me: “Yeah, yeah I am. Pretty happy.”

Him: “Great. So. You happy?”

Me: “Um – “ (looking to my mother, then back to Him) “Yeah. Really, really happy.”

Him: “Very nice, very nice. Ahh, yes. So. Are you happy?”

Me: “Yeah, yeah. Well. There’s good days and bad days.”

Him: “Ha. Mmm. That’s too bad, dear. So. You happy?

Me: “Yes, frankly, I’m so fucking happy I could unleash a fountain of shit from my tear ducts at any moment!! WEEEEE!!”

Him: “Ha-ha. Ha. Mmm. So. What’s for dinner?”

My sister was there, too. From time to time, she received a “phone call,” or at “text message,” and would have to leave for “half an hour.” But, for the most part, we got to share. And that is what siblings do best, isn’t it? Share and share alike?

Right after my mom’s college roommate and her commonlaw boyfriend of twenty-five years – a Vietnam vet, who battled his shell-shock when my mom laid out the figs, and managed to be as unnerving as humanly possible – right after we’d spent twenty minutes with them, my sister and I shoved off to the bar. Just to see who was around.

It was right then that I started feeling old. Not way old like perforated brain old, but old enough to go to bed at one, without worrying that I’d “missed something.”

So. Anyway. It’s just hit one, and we’ve been at the bar for like an hour. There is a LedZeppelin-cover/Dead-inspired/Phish-ish band playing. There is a posse of twenty-something Long Island PhishKids dancing around like crazy, arms flapping and waving in a manner I guess I'd call 'groovy.' I’m feeling drunk, but also a bit growly and cantankerous. My sister, who did her time among the PhishKids, is talking me out of a big old grumpus. She gets me up to dance. For a brief moment, I feel a little twitch. A little tingle. A little of what it was like to flap and wave groovily. I felt free!! We had a hop around. We played dancing baboon. We played Who’s A Big Grouchy Geek. It was great.

And then, the moment passed. One of the several girls with smelly pits and a long, silkscreened skirt danced over to us, trailing aromas which took several moments to catch up with her.

“Hey, you guys.”

“Hey.”

“So are you guys coming to Dave’s or what?”

(looking at each other, then her) “Yeah, totally.”

“Yeah. Nice. Awesome. It’s totally right next door.”

(looking at each other, then her) “Cool.”

My point is that somehow, through this off-the-cuff little exchange, we ended up at Dave’s. We sat on the floor next to the silkscreen girl who had invited us. A boy wearing a pancake-like macramé hat played enough acoustic guitar to sate my hunger for the Black Crowes for a lifetime. The dreadlocked drummer from the band at the bar sat on the carpeted stairs, nodding knowingly at the panelling.

We sat there and, I regret to say, that I got fucked-up enough to be unable to engage any of these nice people in conversation. My sister reported to me the next morning that I spent the whole time trying to “make some guy laugh” with “corny jokes.” The most upsetting part of this is that, in my memory, that same guy had given me a blow job. Rats!!

Whatever. It was no worse than Thanksgiving Eve.

The night before, I'd headed out solo to the town gay bar. There is only one gay bar around, and it serves a large swath of Long Island, so please. Some Mad Props, if you would.

In any event, they charged me ten bucks to get in, then drew a sloppy circle on my wrist in Turquoise Magic Marker. This ten dollars and disfiguring earned me two Coronas, and the right to stand between the comb-over guy and the spiky-gel-haired-tweased-eyebrow guy as they subtly fought over who would get to stand closer to the Exotic Dancer.

Ahh, the Exotic Dancer. Now I won’t say that he wasn’t cute, because he was – with his lip ring and pout and all. The problem was, this boy couldn’t have been older than twenty!!

Talk about feeling old. Since when have I cared that the Exotic Dancer is too young to buy a drink in this bar? Since when have I cared that the Exotic Dancer should probably be at home studying. Or at least wiping out his lip piercing with a cotton swab. Poor thing might get an infection!! Since when??

AAAHHHH!!

I’m getting old.

I thought getting back to the city would help. I went to a dinner party tonight, fighting every line of my inner-hermit’s code. I went there and I didn’t feel old. I felt lame.

“Oh, yeah. Yeah, I’ve got to go. Sorry, y’all. Got to work in the morning.”

“WHAT??”

“Yeah, yeah. Yeah, it’s true. No, I’ve got to go.”

“NO!!”

“Yeah. I know. I’ll see you soon, though.”

“ALRIGHT!! BYE!!” (continued partying)

“Yeah.” (starts walking) “Yeah.” (keeps walking)

I mean, what the fuck? You really can’t win, can you? I mean, ultimately, considering the time, I probably could have stayed. But I couldn’t. I can’t. I won't. Besides, it turned out that the only hot guy there had just got engaged. Plus, the Beef Wellington was taking an age.

Point is, I feel old. Not like crap-my-thong old, but old enough.