It’s quite easy to misinterpret the essay titled “On Old Men” as a piece on the older men. It is not. It is a peek at and a short ode to those 80 years and older, the Greatest Generation as Tom Brokaw, himself a soon-to-be member of that club, calls them.

Watching old men has long been a secret hobby of mine, sort of like bird-watching for some. Luckily I’m provided much opportunity to do just that when, bored and waiting for a good hand at the poker table, I’m surrounded by an ample pool of retirees. Unlike young jocks or pretty girls, old men are unaware that they are being watched, thus making the entire surveillance even more worthwhile as you will always catch a grandpa in his natural unselfconscious state. Saggy pants up to his chin, an almost universal absence of a rear, bended-knee gait propped up by oversized sneakers, an old-fashioned, square-shaped baseball cap with USMC or Korean War Vet logo, shaky hands deformed by arthritis. And a permanent sad smile. Life’s battles, victories and defeats are firmly behind him, nothing more to prove, no more skirts to chase, no more dicks to measure, he’s finally free to be himself. Not that he needs that freedom at this point, especially if the Mrs. has imprudently checked out earlier, condemning him to a quiet resignation to quotidian routines – his own meals to cook, his own shoes to tie and no one to talk to. Old age does something to men – it’s rarely that I meet an old man full of malice. Crankiness, yes, but not spite. Even when they are angry, they express it in a bygone-era terms that makes it sound almost charming, and not hard-hitting and offensive. Sort of like William F. Buckley’s “Stop calling me a crypto Nazi or I’ll sock you in your goddamn face and you stay plastered” variety. Such old-time, gentlemanly manner almost makes me uncomfortable to tell a dirty joke in their presence, which is rather odd, because clearly an old man would be the most qualified person in the room to appreciate it, as he has seen it all. Seen it all, and yet the most dirty word in his vocabulary is ‘goddamn’.

Sometimes they approach me for a talk, because when they catch me in my curious gaze, I can’t help but smile back in a way I smile when I see a puppy. Engaging an old man in a conversation that, more often than not, is a monologue about a bad poker hand or, once he got the ball rolling, his past life, the wife who passed away, the union job they used to have is always rewarding. The stories they have to tell, however trivial, rarely have other welcoming audience. Who would want to listen to an old fart? But I enjoy the uncharged, undertone-free exchange I can have with an old man. Even his clumsy attempts at flirting carry a hint of innocence, like that of a pre-adolescent boy.

The melancholy of seeing a lonely old grandpa dragging his feet through the park is always more penetrating than seeing a lonely grandma. I don’t know why. Perhaps because old ladies always form a little coterie – a generations-old tool to deal with the expected widowhood – and continue on living. Old men never form such a self-help club. Like a small child separated from his parents in a crowded and busy train station, old man is often lost when he suddenly finds himself alone in the waning years. Evolution did not equip them to deal with the old age, as they were not supposed to make it that far.

They come from the time of a mandated military service, the time of the important wars, they built the country we inherited. They know how to do the right thing, not the thing that pays off the most. Old men are capable of having a genuine expression of joy and grief, as the mechanisms that have enabled them to suppress it have worn off or became useless, or perhaps because the lives they lived did not require a fake façade. To me, witnessing an old man tearing up is one of the most arresting experiences to have, for he knows something I don’t, he has seen something I haven’t. It ain’t lost money his crying about.

I wonder if it’s just a matter of time that the current roster of self-absorbed meanies can metamorphose into those harmless and mellow senior citizens. I certainly hope that this is the case. But in the meantime, try the following exercise: next time you encounter an arrogant jerk, imagine him 40 years from now, quietly sitting on the park bench, a walker by his side, thinking to himself: “Kids these days.” You’ll never look at him the same way again.

The denouement of my birthday party the other day may have changed the cruel fate of two nice black guys.

The final chapter of the party took place in Soho House and consisted of 3 Russian girls and one nice Jewish guy at different stages of highness and drunkenness. I wasn’t as elevated as the rest, unfortunately, because I was anticipating, for several weeks now, the dreaded “peeing in the cup” procedure. Nonetheless our festive mood was hard to spoil and we made ourselves comfortable on the couch in the lounge area and ordered drinks. It was well past midnight and the place was getting empty. As such, the remaining parties, especially on neighboring couches were joining each other in the chit-chat. Two artsy-type black guys were sitting next to us, paying interest to our loud drunken chatter about things that should be best kept private. Natasha was explaining to Nathan what types of men she likes, heavy on detail. At this point all of us were speaking in mixed languages, waving arms, giggling at self-made crude jokes that seemed witty at the time and thinking that we were being discreet. The two black guys decided to make a move. “Are you Russian?” – one of them asked. I must say that that day we all looked like prime PETA targets, including all 3 of us wearing giant fur hats, which, given the setting, made us look not just Russian but cartoonish. “We’re going to Russia in a few weeks”. “We’re taking a train through Siberia” – added the other proudly. Natasha, high as a kite, and spotting the new audience turned around and began chatting with the guys. They looked happy and content.

A few minutes later I turned around to check on the situation on the neighboring couch and I must tell you, I saw the real life interpretation of Munch’s “Scream”. The two black guys looked as white as a sheet. Their jaws were agape, their eyes frozen in horror. At this point Natasha was standing and, using heavy gesticulation to drive the point home, in vivid details, in heavy accented English was describing to them how they are going to be raped on the Moskva – Vladivostok train. She wasn’t joking, she looked very concerned. “Two black guys, on a train for a week, in the middle of nowhere, are you out of your fucking mind?  You will be sitting in the compartment with some smelly drunken hicks eating fried chicken in a foil drinking vodka for breakfast and smoking 24/7 with no way out. For weeks! And that’s if you’re lucky. That is if the bandits don’t rob you and kick you out from the train in some deep Siberian forest and where they’ll find your thawed corpses in the spring, if at all. Sovsem ohueli? And, you know, black guys like yourself – you can become popular there, and not just with girls! And then they’ll never find you.” The more she talked the more she got into a groove and the more morbid her audience’s faces became.

Although the picture was a feast for the eyes, we had to stop the torture. The two guys just came here to have a drink, relax after a hard day’s work, chat, have a good time but inadvertently got themselves into some reality check. We said quick “Nice to meet you, have fun in Russia” to the guys, paid the bill and dragged Natasha to the elevator, where we bursted with laughter.

Somewhere the next day two black guys were cancelling their plane tickets to Moscow.

Steve McCroskey: Johnny, how ’bout some more coffee?

Johnny: No, thanks!

Quote from the Airplane! movie

Is it just me or is this airplane guy is actually

this Airplane guy?

Nothing is new under the Sun.  Seeing a headline like this:  Homeless man smashes window to get arrested the first thing that immediately came to my mind was a short O. Henry story about a homeless man who was trying to do the same. Both of these men, the fictitious and the real one, even resorted to the same tactics at some point – smashing windows. The present day story, however, was more prosaic – the guy managed to get arrested as he planned, albeit not on the first try. However, he wasn’t as inventive as the Soapy, the character in O. Henry story, who first decided to get arrested by having a fancy dinner and not pay for it. He’s unlucky in his quest though, as the restaurant owners are uncooperative and the policemen that he meets are somewhat lenient or stubbornly refuse to arrest him. Eventually, he does get his “three months on the Island” for the upcoming winter but not without a twist. Our real guy, before resorting to smashing Dunkin Donuts windows was ““going to strangers’ doors” asking if he could stay at their homes”, to no success. No, he obviously has not heard of this American classic.

Anyway, it’s a pleasure to read this story once again, here’s the link to the story.  The Cop and the Anthem. Some brilliant quote from the story:

In Soapy’s opinion the Law was more benign than Philanthropy. There was an endless round of institutions, municipal and eleemosynary, on which he might set out and receive lodging and food accordant with the simple life. But to one of Soapy’s proud spirit the gifts of charity are encumbered. If not in coin you must pay in humiliation of spirit for every benefit received at the hands of philanthropy. As Caesar had his Brutus, every bed of charity must have its toll of a bath, every loaf of bread its compensation of a private and personal inquisition. Wherefore it is better to be a guest of the law, which though conducted by rules, does not meddle unduly with a gentleman’s private affairs.

There’s too much interesting stuff going on these days to write about, but I will indulge myself into writing about something unrelated. I just came back from Atlantic City where I saw Mark Knopfler perform. I assume readers of this journal know who he is which will spare me from engaging in platitudes like “one of greatest guitarist of our time”. Statements like these won’t even begin to describe the level of mastery that he still possesses, at 60 years old.  I first became acquainted with his music by way of Dire Straits back in the 1980s. The iconic image is still imprinted in my head of Mark wearing headband with the fluorescent guitar in the famous Money for Nothing video.

Unlike my beloved Jimmy Page, another guitar God, whose heavy and powerful chords overwhelm you like a bulldozer, delivering a muscular, unrestrained sound, Mark’s is a fluid, crafty woven guitar lace that is so characteristic of Dire Straits. I was unfamiliar with his latest solo releases, perhaps because I’m a bit of a conservative when it comes to music and I didn’t want to be disappointed. But the sound that I heard from the first notes yesterday was so unique, so unmistakably familiar that it became instantaneously clear who was on stage. His guitar is telling a story in almost Tolkienesque way with many intertwined subplots and ornamental diversions. He doesn’t just go a straight line from A to B, he dances his way from one note to another with his fingers, rivaling Fred Astaire footwork. Despite such mastery, Mark is completely devoid of showmanship and is totally consumed in the moment. He’s there to deliver quality music and not to inspire air-guitar playing kids with various acrobatic tricks. Here’s what I’m talking about (this is from another performance 5 years ago, but he hasn’t lost it). I like how nonchalant he is.

Continue under the fold.

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“You are disturbing me. I’m picking mushrooms”

Remember when you were 5 or 6 years old and you were sitting alone in the sandbox, poking the worm in the sand with the branch and having a moment of contemplation. In that serene moment, even though you weren’t thinking of anything in particular, but invited different thoughts as they came, everything became clear.

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