It's About More Than Dead Heroes . . .

Memorial Day . . .

. . . . Supposedly a time to reflect on the soldiers who've fought valiantly and died to preserve our American way of life, for what its worth. But for most of us, it's the starter pistol announcing the birth of summer frolic and debauchery. The scent of steaks grilling, families fussing, and bad-ass kids running around doing shit they shouldn't . . . might come to mind. Or . . . maybe a decadent dash down to DC for OUR yearly convergence might come to mind also. I know that when I was a younger whipper-snapper, that was the ticket for me. BBQ's, sweaty house-parties, clubs, strippers, and of course . . . Boys Boys Boys, beautiful overly-body-conscious boys in varying shades of brown all with one collective thought . . . bustin' a few before the weekend was over. Yeah. That damn sure comes to mind. But I'm not 21 anymore and my whip doesn't always snap back, so week-ends filled with drunken possibly safe sex are lower priority now. Not that I'm above it all mind you . . . nah, never that . . . I'm a firm believer in man's highly sexual nature, his almost insane urge to conquer new booty. The only crime is repressing it, or pretending to be above it. So, nah, fuck that. I'm not above it. I've just changed a bit. Yeah. I see the handwriting on the wall, and what's scrawled there is a really big four . . . and an annoying little zero. And what's worse, I'm speeding toward it like I'm in freefall and my chute won't open. I'm not afraid of hitting that plateau . . . fear, that was the approach of thirty. But I survived that and come to realize that we're all in life's great freefall, and no one has a chute. I don't waste energy anymore pawing for a rip-cord which isn't there . . . now, as this next level approaches, I'm not flailing about in terror. I just glide and enjoy the ride. It's not that I don't wanna tool down to DC and be blissfully debauched at some BBQ/orgy . . . but we're back to that ol' whip thing again. I just don't bounce back like a use to. When I drink now, I get the sort of hang-overs that refuse to be chased away by aspirin and a cold bowl of Apple Jacks. Therefore, breaking day after a night of partying and Tequila shots has been almost entirely replaced with . . . eating Jell-O in bed watching Countdown with Keith Obermann. What the hell? When did world affairs and whipped-cream-topped desserts become more interesting than thumpin' dance floors and inebriated Wet Boxer-Brief competitions? When the fuck did I grow up? That's what this plateau is about for me. Growing up. I mean, really growing up. Not in chronological years but in life-view years. It's about seeing life through a different lens (not the prescription ones that keep me from holding the paper at arms length), a panoramic lens, one that sees most things coming and keeps me from repeating past mistakes, and it solves the life-long conundrum . . . why does my hand burn when I stick it into fire? This new lens can even see into the future. I see myself on Friday night . . . palming some faceless morsel's ass, blowing money and swilling Cognac like a Rapper whose debut is number two with a bullet, bleary-eyed, waving hands in the air like I just don't care, crudely rolled cigar dangling from my lip. Then I see myself on Saturday morning . . . confused, poorer, wondering why I rented such a bright hotel room, and how had the morsel I'd met at the club last night turned into the questionable giblet laying next to me . . . and finally . . . if I mixed Percocet and the purple pill with a Maalox chaser, would I feel human enough to start all over again? Yeah. I can see for miles now . . . and my body is the better for it. I haven't rearranged my night-life because Obermann is like that annoying friend I keep inviting to parties anyway. Once I embraced life's freefall I saw things differently. I still love to occasionally overdose on all those debauched things . . . boys, booze, sex, and eating to excess. Even though I'm at the age when my annual prostate exam is almost more important than using a condom, I can still engage in the aforementioned deadly debaucheries . . . as long as I tone it down a notch. Like I said before, Memorial Day is about more than just dead heroes. I spent it this year . . . not at Fleet Week pretending to ogle the ships while only caring about meat-packing sailors interested in a little 'don't ask and damn sure not telling' . . . and not surrounded by a writhing throng of sweaty strangers buzzed out of their minds . . . nah, none of that. I spent it surrounded by the coolest people in the world, people I'm proud to call my friends . . . some of whom I've been to hell and back with, and some whom I've only recently accepted as part of my life . . . all of whom at one time or another I've wanted to bludgeon with a rock. But that's true friendship. Liquor still flowed. Steaks still sizzled. Old stories that I've heard a thousand times before made me smile. The strippers and the crowds of horny strangers were pushed aside, just for a time . . . replaced by something which I've come to appreciate as I glide, something more important than carnal titillations: Brotherly love . . . that warm, familial sense of fraternity. As me and my boy were getting ready to go to Saturday's BBQ . . . he looked at me and said, "I don't know if I'm feeling the beard, you kinda got a Capt. Jack Sparrow thing going on." I looked in the mirror. He's was right. Johnny Depp had touched my soul playing that pirate. There was a time though, when I was flailing, I would have immediately changed my look. But I responded, "You're right. Let's go." Yeah. I've just changed a bit. I drink a lot less, eat more green stuff, and know more names of Iraqi cities than porn stars. I still sail the social seas and plunder and debauch young maidens, err, uh . . . mates, but I only do it with my boy at my side. He lets me know when I've ingested enough Grog, and hit my debauchery limit. But even more importantly . . . we do it surrounded by the best crowd there is, OUR Ring of cool-ass friends. I hope everyone enjoyed their weekend, debauched or not, and put it all into a clear-headed perspective. It's about more than dead heroes . . . it's about clasping hands, feeling the wind in our faces, celebrating life, love and freedom. And of course . . . enjoying the ride. *** Photo Credits: Lando ... for making Capt. taylorSiluwé look almost 'purty' ... thanks kid. Go to the GALLERY of Our Ring for A FLASH Banner of the event.***