A trip home yielded a few extra thoughts on the topic of aging alternatively, liberally or counter-culturally- however you want to depict it.

Rummaging through old photos and tapes- stashed in old backpacks and paper bags- brings back the patchwork life I led over a decade ago (in many ways I'm still living it, but the broken mirrors in this reflecting essay is essentially about the differences that exist at this time).  Dirty cassettes of King Missile still sound fantastic, only I don't get bored as quickly with them.

My high school reunion is this fall.  Ten years.  When I was in high school, at any point, I was loath to think I would ever want to see these people again.  I'm happy to report I still feel that way for the most part, except that there are a few key people I wouldn't mind catching up with.  Why it wouldn't have been more effective to just look up those key people and reconnect sans reunion, I don't know.  The reunion at least gives me something to not look forward to.  We need things to rebel against otherwise we're not picking the "alternative", eh?

I have a daughter.  Yikes.  And not as in, "I have a great version of the song 'Daughter' played acoustic by Pearl Jam in Ohio from '91 [1] where they go into Pink Floyd's 'The Wall' at the end;" An actual daughter.  Few things make you think you're no longer part of the Alternative Army than having a child.  There aren't many alternatives to car seats, Jumparoo's, Pack-N-Plays and Baby Einstein (which, by-the-way, is a set of videos I would love to have had during my heavier substance-abuse days).  What if she wants to dress up as a princess for Halloween?  My goodness, how do I explain to her that she doesn't want to appear a sucker for outmoded social constructs?  What if she just likes dressing up as a princess?  How do I tell her that the only way I could approve of a child of mine dressing up as a princess is if they were male and expressing their want to embrace all options of life?  Obviously the entire concept of having a child makes you understand how silly some of our railing is.  The good news is, my daughter will have all the options in the world to choose from with full acceptance of any seemingly strange or weird selections.  But that also means accepting that which others might consider "normal" too.  Of course she's likely to like what many of her friends do, whether that's princesses, Spider-Man or the Indigo Girls—its as much about shared experiences as it is peer pressure. Or parent pressure.  The thought of "forcing" anything on her is abhorrent to me, be that my own love of counterculture or general society's imagery.  But this is what is not doubt seen as the "conservatism" new parents encounter and incorporate into our lives.  Suddenly, the notion of "counter" anything is just another choice, as it should be.  We need to feel safe with our choices, even if its what everyone else feels is safe too.  If we want to deliberately choose the unsafe choices, than fine- as long as we let you make those choices and you own up to the repercussions of them.  This is why knocking over the mailbox when you're 13 is fun only if you don't get caught—and when you're 31 and you own that mailbox it isn't.

Of course, having a daughter through heterosexual sex seems to knock you down a peg on the counter-culture board- we were supposed to adopt, or create a child for gay friends or maybe build a child out of free-range chicken meat and tofu strips.  But when you're already discounted for getting married (and in a semi-traditional ceremony- GASP!) than you might as well go for broke.  Speaking of broke, now when you complain about money it's not because you can't afford to go to a particular concert or grab that extra DVD- with a child its because you're living paycheck to paycheck to feed an actual human being.  When friends take digs at you because you can't accompany them to the next hot show, you feel especially bitter towards them.  Maybe setting a car on fire at the nearest college campus would put my street cred back in the black.  When people look at me with that strangely disappointed and condescending look, the one where they are truly bothered by how normal a choice is, I feel that same sour taste in the back of my throat that I used to get when arguing with my extended family over my reasons to dye my hair.  Who are you to judge me?  It's weird having to ask that of a friend, especially when they are busy spending their lives fighting other people's judgment.

My trip "home" was for a purpose other than this reflecting however.  It was to help my mother, dealing with the home-care of my aging grandmother.

Mudhoney, Husker DÜ or Danzig never wrote songs about your parents losing sanity trying to take care of their own.  Dashboard Confessional, Modest Mouse or Norah Jones aren't likely to in this generation either [2] .  They also won't tackle the frightening realization that you'll have to take care of your own parents someday.  In this situation it is the anti-establishment position to not put your parent in a home and cut the cord, but to stick it out and always honor and cherish them, despite the loss of everything that made them them (a human need that Asian and European cultures have understood for centuries).  But that's tough.  In fact it can steal your soul.

My grandmother's life is trying to flash before her eyes, only its taking years thanks to the strokes.  We get to participate: trying to fill in gaps, answer circles of the same questions over and over, and playing $10,000 pyramid with people's names or locations.  Lately she's asking questions about fictional or completely distorted scenarios.  We don't know how to answer them.  It's like God is signaling the end of her life's riddle.

I suppose I should frame this;  My family's important to me, and my grandmother has always been an important gateway for the rest of the family.  Seeing a matriarch of sorts so splayed out mentally is difficult.  Layer on the relationships of daughter and grandson and its painful.

By the time I left I had personally seen her lose it over a dozen times.  The last time, right before I climbed back in the car with the dog to leave, she didn't even seem to recognize my mother or her surroundings. Saying goodbye to my mother was one of the hardest things I've ever done.  "I'm so proud of you" she whispered in my ear as we hugged, both crying a little (she was referring, I think, to me completing my Masters).  I replied back how proud I was of her in this most horrible time.  It was a very emotional scene and I recount it here not to drive away any hardcore punk fans who don't have the stomach for sissy crap like my stories of aging (they stopped reading after the first paragraph), but rather to give a glimpse of some of the difficult moments that no amount of youthful rage or frustration can prepare you for.

When I drove away, no music seemed appropriate.  Among the bag of tapes I'd rescued from the attic was a weird little homemade jam between a friend of mine on moderately adequate guitar and me on poorly played drum machine.  It was called "Guilt" and while I have no idea where we thought we were channeling the tune at the time, it seemed difficult and appropriate to listen to it now.  I certainly felt guilty, in an era of my life where that emotion cropped up more than I would request.

Emotion that wasn't the overly-dramatic and relatively invented sort.  Not the kind where you seek out causes and defamers and strike. Aging in America makes you begin to realize that the most out-there and cool people like Hunter S. Thompson didn't get to be where they are (geographically or chronologically) by adhering to a certain cause or even tactic.  Aging isn't pretty but it doesn't have to be a white-fence cakewalk.  Struggle to be yourself, but be careful how easily you fall into the trap you're trying to avoid.  Make sure you believe in something, even if it changes every day.  Try and change it every day if you get the chance, in fact.  Just make sure your whole system of ideals isn't based on one band, a particular brand of clothing, or a particular brand of cosmetics.  That way, when you get older you know how to handle what life throws at you.  Even if its shit.