Not that I plan on dying real soon, but still.
A coworker told me today how his dad had visited, vetted, selected, and signed-up for an apartment at an assisted living facility.
The man, who is entering his 90s, took this task upon himself while still physically upright and mentally cognizant. Knowing a thing or seventy-six about the challenges and delicate politics of dealing with/caring for elderly parents I was impressed as hell.
It’s hard for even the most stoic, the most pragmatic among us to face the inevitable if with any luck incremental kneecapping of age, let alone the Big D. For the majority — whose tighties get all in a twist at even the suggestion of rain on the weekend — such sober forethought is impossible.
My mom died at 92 not quite a year ago. Over the years she made some stabs at a personal and family history, and the more focused scraps formed a thin magnum opus that some second cousin was kind and attentive and interested enough to compile and print. She was quite proud, mom, of seeing her work in such professional form as a Kinko’s soft-cover.
I’m not planning anything like that right here right now. So relax.
It’s more of a Listicle. You guys like those, right?
Kind of a digital cheat-sheet if I ever do get around to an autobiography (I won’t) and a way to preserve the few memories that remain because my memory has never been very good and, should I go the way of other mortals, it isn’t likely to get better.
- The first presidential election I could vote in was 1976, Carter/Ford. I went with Carter. Haven’t missed an election since. (Except for one local one after I had just moved to a new state and hadn’t yet established residency).
- The only time I broke liberal ranks was to vote for Reagan in 1984. Hate me all you like but I was a big fan of Hal Riney, who did his advertising. (Also my paychecks were pretty fat for the next eight years).
- I wept and screamed on the phone with my dearest friend Mark at 4am when CNN called the 2000 election for Bush over Gore and swore-off politics forever. (Which lasted, like my repeated attempts to quit smoking, for about six weeks).
- My sons were born in 1992, ‘94 and ‘97. They transcend the genetic happenstance of brotherhood by being actual friends. They are everything I wanted, which was to bring good people into this world.
- My usual assigned “butler” at London’s Savoy Hotel once greeted me saying “Ah! Our spy, Mr Bosha.” (I had an erratic work schedule that brought me there weekly, on-and-off, for over a year, which looks romantic and suspicious to people who don’t have to do it. Even Her Magesty’s Customs Agents required a chat every few weeks).
- On one of those stays my British cousin Kev and I got a “lock in” after hours in a SoHo bar with one of the (Oasis) Gallagher brothers. Liam or Noel. Kev and I were both too drunk to remember which the next morning.
Not that this is meant to be a litany of celebrity name-dropping but what the hell else does anybody care about? So…
- In the delightful strangeness that were my 20s and 30s in New York City I had the occasion to meet Quentin Crisp. We hit it off immediately, I even once (long story) escorted him to his dentist. I was also once asked by Carly Simon to take her picture with him…with her camera. I was so flummoxed being handed Carly Simon’s camera by Carly Simon that, when backing up to frame the shot, I toppled backwards over a low couch that was lurking silently behind me.
- I was once asked by Carly Simon if I “was OK.” Twice. Then she said “You sure?”
- I have been more-or-less embarrassed ever since. It’s a way of life now.
- A darker shade of lit, I once strolled around the Limelight nightclub (VIP only) introducing myself as Brooke Shields. Then Simon Le Bon of Duran Duran (Brooke’s boyfriend at the time) walked up with herself, pointed and said “Actually, THIS is Brooke Shields”. I replied “My G0d! It’s like looking in a mirror!” and my friend Mark, previously mentioned out of chronological order in Bush v Gore, above, spirited me away to a cab with firm instructions to go home.
I’m not proud of all this stuff, just as amazed by it as you should be.
- I was diagnosed with bladder cancer the same week my mother died (I’m doing well, thank you, but she’s still dead).
- Shit really fell apart for me after 9/11. My therapist at the time said I had PSTD, a diagnosis I rejected because I was 120 blocks away when it happened, watching the collapse and gray plumes on a beautiful morning from an elevated train station in Harlem while women screamed and men cried. I knew people who were there. But I wasn’t there.
He may have had a point. He was a published authority and distinguished physiatrist but I felt ashamed for not dying that day so fuck him and his opinion and he’s since passed away so David, I’m sorry.
That’s all for now. This, like everything I write now in the twilight, is for my boys. Defensively entertaining yes but I hope relatively unvarnished. Like their grandmother’s recollections of a Great Depression childhood, it’s here they ever bother looking.
I hope they do.
After all, there’s barely a Kinko’s to be found anymore.
