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2006-05-27 - 2:09 p.m.

They didn't disturb me, they really didn't, that large table of boisterous old men who were loudly enjoying their Saturday morning breakfast outside on the Yukon Mining Company patio this morning. But they did serve as yet another example of what I have been noticing lately, that getting older doesn't necessarily mean growing up, particularly if the individuals weren't inclined that way in the first place. Who, save for their various body aches and pains and whatever noticeable degeneration in appearance there may happen to be, is really aware of "getting older" anyway? I know I'm sure not, and often am very surprised whenever I contemplate the number that is my chronological age. It's kind of a claustraphobic shock (as if I realized that I were in a dungeon awaiting my execution in the morning), and sometimes sends me down a mental path of "what does it mean, really?", and then I shrug my shoulders and end the thoughts with a curt "it means whatever you want it to mean, or absolutely nothing, really." I mean, may as well be disturbed that "Good God, it is May 27!" or "2:09 P.M.!" Those numbers really are meaningless unless in reference to some timeline, schedule, or deadline. If I had something I was supposed to finish on May 26, but didn't, or an appointment at 2:00 that I missed, then the numbers have some meaning. But otherwise, they're all just relative, and even then might not matter much. Whatever I am supposed to do, or not do, is not really yoked to the passage of time. "What are you doing NOW?" is what matters, all the rest is just memory or guessing.

I figured those guys met there regularly every Saturday morning, based not only on their easy banter with each other, but also the waiter's casual familiarity with them, playing along with them in saying things like, "Any of you ladies want more coffee?" as he held up the freshly-brewed pot, and then immediately filled the cup of one old codger sitting across the table, "I know the Dodger fan wants one."

You ladies? Yep, they were all gay, that kind of gay, and hadn't changed a whit since the early 70s, and they were still of the kind of mind that sees every word, concept, or innuendo in terms of sex and that they are just "poor girls" out to get as much of it as they can. Yeah, that's it, every gay guy is some poor working girl standing beneath a lamppost. Where did that whole concept come from, anyway? I grew up with it surrounding me and I have no idea.

This can't necessarily be ascribed to all gay people, even the ones who grew up with the "Hey, gurrl!" kind of banter that was more common in those early days of gay liberation. And for all I know, maybe the current crop of young studs all talk this way, too, and everything said can be turned into an innuendo of cocks or fucking; I haven't noticed, or maybe it just stands out when the speakers are all of an age where it is unimaginable that any of them are getting any. Maybe that's why they speak as though they see it everywhere, because they are looking for it everywhere. Well, sure, because I have long understood the aphorism that "those who never talk about it are the ones who are getting it all the time."

Well, that gaggle of (surely heterosexual) elderly Jewish women taking up the whole row behind me at the Laemmle movie theater in Encino last week never fell into any sexual innuendo. And I know that, because they sure talked a lot and did not stop until I finally had to turn around and scare them all to death by angrily demanding that they shut up right now. Honestly, I have never had to do that before with anybody in my whole life. No group of children (who, while enthusiastic, are really quite well behaved at the movies; I would never think to avoid a so-called kiddie movie because of the likely presence of hordes of children--they actually enhance the movie-going experience with their easy laughter and screams of delight), or even teenagers (who for their part, if they are in dating couples, sit with hands held with love and restrained desire and speak with a low quietness that signals their yearning for privacy, or if they are in friendly groups, aren't shy about talking, but shut up the minute the movie starts) have ever made me wish that they would wire their mouths shut with barbed wire.

Not so these rude women, who irritated me so much with their constant crunching of popcorn, passing the boxes back and forth among them, crinkling open candy wrappers, slurping soft drinks, and yammering at full voice about any inane thing that entered into their minds, back and forth across the length of the whole row. This was before anything but the advertising slide show ran on the screen, so I tolerated it.

However, it continued without let-up throughout the coming attractions. Okay, those are really advertisements, too, but still, I happen to like coming attractions and would rather enjoy them than listen to a whole row of imbecile senior citizens--who are they to decide otherwise? But I thought to myself surely they will shut up once the movie proper actually begins. No such luck. Either they were actually unaware that the movie had begun, or it just didn't matter to them. Well, it mattered to me, so finally I turned around in a "fight or flight" rage (it actually made my heart pound in what felt like it could be in heart-attack mode) and made it quite clear that they were shutting up NOW and I wasn't to hear a single one of their voices for the next two hours. I acted like a "I've finally had it" parent berating a back seat of noisy children on a cross-country trip, which I am sure insulted these adults. I would have slapped them all, if I could have, but I think the tone of my voice slapped them better than my hand could have. They shut right up, except for one old biddie over on one end who said, "Settle down," to me, as if I were the one who was out of line. But even she didn't dare to open her mouth again.

I really had no idea what I would do if they ignored me, but I was mad enough to get them thrown out if they persisted. Actually, I had in mind my second level of beration, to whit, I would have said, "I should think that by the time you reached your 80s you would have learned how to behave in public." The fact that they appeared to me to be in their 80s would have been enough to shut them up with shock, I think.

But every one I know complains about how there seems to be a near-social-breakdown in our society these days with people no longer restraining bad behavior in public...and the shock of this is that this anti-social behavior is being lead by senior citizens. I guess getting old like that means they've stopped caring about anything but their smallest selfish desires, and screw everybody else. "We're old, we don't have to care."

I don't really know what could be the cause of this, but the other day I had a realization that just might be a clue.

Two weekends ago I took a little trip to a quiet little town off the beaten path, Lompoc, for the purpose of doing some book writing. I also had a desire to go see the Guadalupe-Nipomo Dunes Preserve, the largest sand dunes on the Pacific Coast, and Lompoc, while not the closest town to the Dunes Preserve, was close enough, and due to that off-the-beaten-path location, had significantly lower hotel room prices. I was able to stay in an executive suite kitchenette unit for the price of a regular room in other places. I wanted the kitchenette unit, because I would be able to stick to my eating plan better that way. Also, I really didn't want to be forced to leave the room at all that Saturday so that I could spend the whole day working--I wanted to be a self-sufficient cocoon.

My plan was completely a success. I wrote my first children's book, what I hope to be an illustrated book for younger children, so it didn't have a lot of words--it had about six full pages worth of words. But that took all day.

And then on Sunday I explored the Dunes Preserve, which struck me as being very much like Cape Cod with its wooden walkways across the sand and a nearby lake. Very beautiful and unusual.

My next book, a work of juvenile fiction, will take a lot longer to write than one full Saturday. But it did me good, emotionally and mentally, to come out of that experience with a complete work. And once the school starts our summer schedule for the administrative offices, I will have Fridays off and those days I plan to spend with my laptop in a study carrel at the main library in downtown L.A. I will get up early, get dressed, and take the Red Line subway from Hollywood. It will be like having another job, one in which I can focus on my writing.

I admit that it will take me some pretty good discipline to actually spend those Fridays doing this writing instead of say, going to the beach, but it is work that I want to do (and attempting this at home in my apartment has too many distractions). I feel that if I am actually able to publish several books (and I have many, many, many book ideas), I will have generated for myself assets that could be income-earners for the rest of my life. In other words, beyond the joy and fulfillment of this kind of achievement, it's also a kind of "retirement fund".

But now having actually gotten a start on this, I wondered what took me so long to do it? I blame it entirely on being a baby boomer. Being a baby boomer--what is the connection?

Well, baby boomers have always been the largest population group in the country. While this could have the advantage of political power, it also has the severe disadvantage that for each lifetime step or passage, whatever in the world it is that you want, there are also uncountable thousands in line in front of you wanting and competing for the exact same thing.

I experienced this my entire adult life. The sense of competition against such immense numbers for all my desires served as a damper on so many of my ambitions. It seemed that there was never any normal way of obtaining whatever one wanted because the competing numbers were so numerous. Your only hope was via some hidden, back door path, or some secret advantage, or just plain luck coming your way. Direct striving was not likely to bear any fruit.

If you don't think you really have a chance of getting something, then you just won't try for it. When the odds are "lottery odds," it's a waste of money to buy a ticket.

Whether this is really a true situation or just how I have seen it, it nevertheless served to inhibit me from trying as much as I should have. But now time is running out, plus I have more confidence that I have talent and abilities that serve to move me ahead of a nondescript pack of competitors. And, too, after all these years of life, I may have become unique enough that the niche or niches that I could fill have very few other seekers. I don't know. Anyway, it does seem that I have finally managed to move away from the limitation of this particular disability.

But all those baby boomers? They're now entering into senior citizenship. In incredibly huge numbers. And they are full of all the selfish arrogance that can come only from those kind of numbers, from having the advantage of being a majority. Woe to the other age groups! I am pretty sure the rest of the nation is likely to get sick of such a huge number of unrestrained elderly. I know I am sick of them already, and I'm a baby boomer, myself. I just have to make sure that I don't act like them.

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