It was whilst in the hubbub of the holiday that this arrived
in Ye Olde E-Mail Inbox:
Do you think that there is a high incidence of emotional illness amongst chem-seeking gay men especially over, say 40?
Quite a heady question even if your egg-nog to bourbon ratio is 3%. Perhaps this was meant as nothing more than bait for a sucker like me to swallow hook, line and sinker and over react. Perhaps I'm wrong for even attempting analysis.
I think there's a high incidence of emotional weariness amongst all of us who remember the time before HIV, lived through the worst and are here today. In 1981, my friends and I were well-dressed preppies committed to happy hours, Wednesday screenings of Dynasty and music vid's at JR's in Dallas. A whole patriarchy of hirsute and hyper-masculine men ran the political scene, and they were in no rush to turn the reigns over. We boys merchandised well amid fern bar ferns and Pac-Man machines in our madras, chinos and argyles
But just like that, it seems now...they were all dead. If only the suffering had been so swift and succinct. The job of growing up isn't always welcomed, but my little bar buds and I had to. Some didn't...didn't want to I should clarify, and skedaddled. I moved west; because it was only a matter of time before all of us would be dead and why not do everything I wanted to while I could.
That was over 25 years ago. I'm still here: as are a lot of us. I am thankful that medical advances against the euphemism we called ‘AIDS' mean today's Bruins, Longhorns, Horned Frogs or Tigers won't experience what we went through. It wasn't the fear of death: death is guarantee with our birth. It was watching others die, marching with groups like ACT UP or Queer Nation and being treated as lepers for doing so. But perseverance wins out.
What we gained in acceptance we lost a bit in community, in ‘being different'. The picket fence and family I dream of has little to do with assimilation. It has a lot to do with the corny old movies I hold so dear. Delightfully queered for today's audience.
And if I choose to relax, escape or just exist with a shot, a snort, a smoke, or a slam of a quarter, a fifth, a gram, an ounce, a gallon or by watching a marathon of Ma and Pa Kettle films (look them up in your Funk and Wagnalls) then that's my choice. I may be a survivor...but a saint? No thank you.
Do you think that there is a high incidence of emotional illness amongst chem-seeking gay men especially over, say 40?
Quite a heady question even if your egg-nog to bourbon ratio is 3%. Perhaps this was meant as nothing more than bait for a sucker like me to swallow hook, line and sinker and over react. Perhaps I'm wrong for even attempting analysis.
I think there's a high incidence of emotional weariness amongst all of us who remember the time before HIV, lived through the worst and are here today. In 1981, my friends and I were well-dressed preppies committed to happy hours, Wednesday screenings of Dynasty and music vid's at JR's in Dallas. A whole patriarchy of hirsute and hyper-masculine men ran the political scene, and they were in no rush to turn the reigns over. We boys merchandised well amid fern bar ferns and Pac-Man machines in our madras, chinos and argyles
But just like that, it seems now...they were all dead. If only the suffering had been so swift and succinct. The job of growing up isn't always welcomed, but my little bar buds and I had to. Some didn't...didn't want to I should clarify, and skedaddled. I moved west; because it was only a matter of time before all of us would be dead and why not do everything I wanted to while I could.
That was over 25 years ago. I'm still here: as are a lot of us. I am thankful that medical advances against the euphemism we called ‘AIDS' mean today's Bruins, Longhorns, Horned Frogs or Tigers won't experience what we went through. It wasn't the fear of death: death is guarantee with our birth. It was watching others die, marching with groups like ACT UP or Queer Nation and being treated as lepers for doing so. But perseverance wins out.
What we gained in acceptance we lost a bit in community, in ‘being different'. The picket fence and family I dream of has little to do with assimilation. It has a lot to do with the corny old movies I hold so dear. Delightfully queered for today's audience.
And if I choose to relax, escape or just exist with a shot, a snort, a smoke, or a slam of a quarter, a fifth, a gram, an ounce, a gallon or by watching a marathon of Ma and Pa Kettle films (look them up in your Funk and Wagnalls) then that's my choice. I may be a survivor...but a saint? No thank you.
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