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At the time you read this column, I’ll either be drinking heavily to prepare for my thirtieth birthday or I’ll be having a nervous breakdown from turning 30. Some of you may say that turning thirty is no big deal. Yeah? Well, fuck you! Let’s see what a mess you are or were on your thirtieth birthday! At least when you turn forty, it’s expected of you to have a mid-life crisis. You can do anything you want when you turn forty: sleep with someone half as young, buy an expensive sports car, or wig out at work. Your friends will say, "It’s okay, he just turned 40 and he’s having a hard time with it." If you bitch about turning 30, your friends just laugh and call you a whiner. At least when you’re 29 people just think you’re lying about being 30. But when you’re really thirty, you’re definitely an adult. You can’t escape it any longer. Through the majority of my twenties, I could deny that I actually was an adult. I didn’t have any kind of career going. I sure as hell didn’t have any kids to take care of. 30 is when denial meets reality. You say you can party all night like you used to and still make it to work, but your boss has the attendance violations to prove otherwise. You say you still have a full head of hair, but actually your receding hair is migrating to your back and ears. You say you can go at it all night, but your boyfriend says it ain’t so. Fortunately my sense of denial is so strong, I don’t suffer from any of those maladies. Gay men are hit especially hard when they turn 30. You’re too old to be a club kid and too young to be a Daddy. See the guy standing by himself at the corner of the bar? Yeah, he’s thirty all right. At the Gay & Lesbian Expo I bought a Billy doll. Billy has a perfect body, a perfect face, and a bigger schlong than my early Tonto, Lone Ranger, and his horse Silver action figures combined. How do we live up to that? According to my calculations, if Billy represents the average gay man, we’d all have 11-inch penises, soft. I could vacuum pump with a Hoover and never reach that. For once I’d like to see a 30 year-old Billy doll with a beer gut, receding hair, bags under his eyes, with the occasional flare-up of athlete’s foot or hemorrhoids. But of course it wouldn’t sell. Neither will Mr. 30-year-old over there at the bar. That’s the point. Now we know how women feel towards Barbie. Gay culture idolizes the young, buff stud. Gay men in San Francisco created clones long before the Scottish played around with sheep (little side note here: if the scientists implanted the clone embryo in a virgin sheep, does that mean that the scientists were God, Dolly is the Virgin Mother, and the clone baby is the Jesus Christ of ewes? Makes ya think!). According to Genre and Out magazines, either we’re beefy, muscular horny dogs in heat or we’re waif models who wear really expensive yet ugly designer clothes. If they’d start using average-looking models who wear last year’s designer clothes bought on sale, I’d probably get laid more often. Any birthday age that ends in zero is gonna suck. On ground zero I was closer to a woman’s private parts than I ever hope to be again, plus I was smacked on the ass until I cried. On my 10th birthday I think I had a Lego shoved up my nose and had to go to the emergency room. My 20th birthday was worse: I didn’t know any gay people, I was still closeted and underage so I couldn’t go to a gay bar, and I was so horny that if my birthday cake was a bundt I would’ve fucked it. If masturbation were an Olympic event I would’ve turned pro the next year. My twin brother tried to help by setting me up with this skanky girl he knew. A few days later I gave myself a birthday gift and hired an escort. But that’s a story for another column… Yep, it’s time for the big Three-"Oh," as in "Oh, I’m so sorry," or "Oh, you hideous freak of nature, we don’t allow trolls in here." Or my favorite, "Oh, at least I know what to get you for your birthday – Minoxodyl." To add insult to injury I get called "sir" anywhere I go but never during sex. Credit companies remind me of my age by welcoming me back after destroying my credit rating seven years ago in college. In surveys I now fall under the "30 to 39" category. I officially move from the MTV generation to the VH1 generation. I feel like a character in that old "Logan’s Run" movie: when you turn 30 you’re over the hill, there is no Sanctuary, and you have this red rash on your palm that won’t go away. The only cool thing about turning thirty right before the millennium is that I was born in 69. Beat that!
Think I’m a mess now? Just wait till I turn 40! Just humor me by e-mailing [email protected] or visit www.metrocities.net/westhollywood/2555/fqm0.html.
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