Birthday Reflections of a Year in Lockdown
I read a meme or a post or some kind of thing on the Faceborg the other day that said, “Tradition is just peer pressure from dead people.” It struck me because, like many of us, tradition was a big thing in my house growing up. Often used as a guilt magnifier to help hone good behavior. And I like it because if this past year has showed us anything it’s that the only tradition really worth maintaining for whatever possible reason is change.
Things change. Things need to change. Evolution > Tradition.
That said, I also like the tradition I lifted from Don Hall, which is to write an essay on one’s birthday about the things one has learned on their most recent trip around the orange fireball at the center of our lonely little solar system. And Don Hall is not dead. Yet. So, I guess this is less tradition and more, um, inspired peer pressure.
I’ve been at this shit for forty-two full years now. It’s been mostly fun. There were those three years at the tail end of my twenties that nearly killed me but I came out of them with a novel and the ability to shoot tequila. So, you know, win. And, I managed to forge a few really solid friendships despite the alcoholic and depressed cloud that surrounded me much like Pig-Pen’s cloud of dirt. I’m long past those Dark Days, and yet, I still manage to bring them up in casual conversation or pre-dawn essay writing. And that is a perfect way to dive into the things I’ve learned this past year.
I am extremely and arguably absurdly emotionally attached to things
This is more of a reminder, or a reinforcement of what’s blindingly obvious to me. This personality quirk—or defect, depending on who you are and how you choose to look at me—is flexing pretty hard right now as we plan to move from this apartment of eight years to a new house in a new Chicago neighborhood. Moving is the perfect time to purge and I’m just not sure I can bid farewell to things I know I’ll have to leave behind. Yeah, yeah, I know all about the Marie Kondo thing of items sparking joy. But I go one deeper: Keep items that spark reference. Maybe I should have been a museum curator instead of a writer and creative director. Because to me, just about everything is worthy of historical preservation. That includes a pair of boxer briefs I bought over twenty-one years ago. (More on that in another forthcoming essay.) It’s not that I’m incapable of throwing things out, it’s just that it’s harder for me than most. But when I reach the stage of acceptance that some history is best preserved in one’s mind and the time comes to put something behind me or on the curb, I do so with abandon and a swiftness unmatched. Done is done. Maybe I’ll write about it. Maybe it’s the next novel.
Writing takes a different kind of energy now
When the idea of being a writer was a goal, I could churn out typed pages for days all while wearing a big smile on my face. Then I started to get paid for it. Then work got busy. Then the kid woke up. Then the dog had to go out. Then… then… then… I’ve spent the last year or so retraining myself to be a writer. Yes, I can still do it and I do, but it has since come to feel like another responsibility, another piece of accountability I lug around like Marley’s chains. Inspiration fits differently on this overtly domesticated body.
I really like He-Man
But not in the gay way. Although there’s nothing wrong with that. The Masters of the Universe was my favorite cartoon and my favorite toys when I was only slightly older than my son is now. This year, Mattel released all new Masters of the Universe origin figures. I saw He-Man and Skeletor hanging on a shelf in Target one day and just about lost my mind. These figures are now fully poseable and, well, I needed them. I took a photo and sent it to my good friends Dr. Jarret Keene and Don Hall teasing them with, “My birthday is coming up!”—it was, like, February. The next day, an Amazon box arrived at my place. In it was He-Man, Skeletor, and fucking Battle Cat! Jarret sent me an early birthday present. Do I play with these things? Yep! It’s a great way to procrastinate. It completely removes my mind from the work at hand, the horrors of the news, and the blood-boiling stupidity of social media’s doom scrolling.
Shortly after I received these toys, I realized that He-Man has been a constant all my life. I own the entire series on DVD and have for decades. My favorite dish in the house is a plastic Masters of the Universe plate that’s older than my baby brother and is completely dishwasher safe. I have a Lordi band t-shirt stylized like the Masters of the Universe logo. I still think Evil-lyn is hotter than Teela, and I’ll argue to my death that the 1987 live-action Masters of the Universe film starring Dolph Lundgren and Frank Langella as He-Man and Skeletor respectively is the greatest project Courtney Cox has ever participated in. Speaking of…
Friends still sucks
The jokes, most storylines, and character developments beyond season four do not hold up. It’s almost like those episodes were written by out of touch white baby boomers. Oh, yeah, they were.
I need to pause and be proud of myself every now and again
I’ve never been one to rest on their laurels. And I’ve never been one for daily affirmations or being really proud of making little steps toward a big goal. I’m not that shallow or weak. But being asked to write for The Atlantic and the President of the United States is pretty cool—and kind of a big deal.
Our marriage should be good
There’s never really a good time for anyone to put their marriage on coast, but I think we’ll be okay. At least for a little while, the need to panic over the state of our affairs is behind us. Katie and I managed to get through (most) of a global pandemic going into it a little burned out from parenthood and personal failings, but here we are, getting along better and generally pretty excited for the future of things. Maybe Katie has a different perspective on things. I don’t know. We don’t talk much.
I do have Hollywood looks
Despite how much I dislike my big nose and my twisted, bony frame, I always felt I was at least mostly good looking. Maybe even good looking by Hollywood standards. Tell me I don’t look like Adrian Brody or Steve Carrell or Mr. Bean or the new Elliot Page. I swear, I saw this photo of Page and my first thought was, “Holy shit, Elliot Page has a picture of me in a Las Vegas pool circa 2003. That’s weird.”
I’ve become almost perfectly comfortable with my discomfort with my American Judaism
Too much to unpack right here right now. But I’m confident by age forty-three, I’ll have no problem telling American Zionists to fuck themselves in the face with an Uzi with the same passion I’d tell a Trump-supporting, Capitol-storming racist to fuck themselves with their stupid Confederate flags.
Paying attention pays off
It’s easy to pay close attention to my son growing up. That’s the warning everyone gives new parents: pay attention because the time goes by so fast. I keep a good eye on the kid and his development and I try to appreciate all of the little moments. Thankfully, I have the Literate ApeCast as a solid documentation of this very thing. But paying close attention to your children makes it real easy to forget about yourself. And your partner. I’ve had to learn to pay better attention to everyone’s development in my household. Myself included. Keeping one eye on yourself helps keep you grounded, focused, and on task to be the Master of the Universe just like you always wanted to be.
Keep going, kid, you’re not an old man yet.
