"I don't know if we're going to let her date..."
This is my life. Conversations like this have import and involve players that are flesh and blood humans who will forever seem to me like dark eyed six year olds. I can even remember being the thirteen year old boy who was all grabby hands and Clinton sex scandal. I pined for the thirteen year old girl whose asshole parents wouldn't let her date. Feeling so grown up then, and realizing how much of a child I still am today, I couldn't imagine having any relationships now, especially not at 13. How much of an adult does this make me? Well, not much of one. It isn't some sense of these children overreaching their maturity, instead, to me, it's cartoonish. It's the proverbial monkey at a typewriter, but in this case, the monkey is certain she is hammering out...oh...I dunno...what are the kids calling "genius" these days. Chabon, or...who is the one guy with all the footnotes who killed himself? Anyway, I think you get it.
As a testament to pulling out and emotional unavailability, I've no kids of my own. This is my friends kid. She's 13, and totally unconscious of how awesome she'll be once adolescence falls away like the crummy exoskeleton hiding one's more fully-formed personage it is. Adolescence wouldn't be any fun if you knew how great you were going to be someday. 13 should be overblown dramas you have zero perspective on and much anticipated hand holding with your "boy/girlfriend". Puberty is intended to be an open assault on everything you know that your dumbass parents don't. Their life lessons should be stultified cliches, and your feelings should be the biggest and realest feelings ever. If not, what growth will you be set-up for when all of those cliches turn out to be hurtful truths and those feelings unravel in your 20's as an exercise in by rote human being-ness? That's the arc of a decent person, anyway, and my friend's kid is gonna be the realness.
She's going to be the college freshman who has seen every relevant cinema classic on the big screen and wreck classrooms full of mouth agape, half assed film students. When semesters abroad become some not-so-distant fall semester's most fashionable accessory, she'll get to casually mention the six weeks she already spent in the UK...without her parents. I think I might be cheating how much vicarious "this is my daughter" I have wrapped up in this thing, but this might be the closest I get to having a kid. [kicks at adolescent exoskeleton still attached to leg]
But for right now, she's kind of an asshole. She has no understanding of how heavy the blow will be when she understands how good her parents are to her and the sacrifices they've made to allow her life to happen. So basically, she's perfect, and poised to be a member of the shrinking guild of good people.
And after all of that, the table is set for this..."Gavin" situation.
And after all of that, the table is set for this..."Gavin" situation.
For a moment, I have to step back and lay a little groundwork so this story moves in the Jacob's Ladder-esque concentric circles that mortar all of my ill-conceived analogies together. This girl is not my friend's flesh and blood. Her biological father and her mother were an ovule and an anther and the honey bee between. He's never been around, and it seems for the best. My friend, this 13 year old's real father, happened upon the other part of himself, and she came with a child. He got two people to love unconditionally in one fell swoop, and as stories about love so defiant in the face of a world where it seems impossible go, he had more love than the two of them could take, so they added another child of their own.
It's a family, and as patresfamilias go, he's a pretty kick ass dad. He's a published novelist, a filmmaker with an actual film made, and weirdly successful in his soul obliterating day job. There have been family trips to places like a dude ranch, and Stax Records, and the Renaissance Faire. Telephone conversations with his wife are painful and cloying, but unconcerned, he mucks around in them like a happy, fat pig. This summer, we had a spirited debate about whether or not this 13 year old was ready to watch The Shining. They watched it together, and in a well placed reference--the magic of which cannot be transferred anecdotally--he scared the shit out of her afterwards. This is the expanse of protection and exposure he wants for his daughters. This is the life he wants for himself, because as the life shared with the ones you love goes, there is no other life but this one.
Enter Gavin, a 14 year old born in 1997 when Bush was in between Razor Blade Suitcase and The Science of Things, Sixteen Stone a distant memory, so it's certain he's not even named after good Gavin Rossdale. (Oh? You named him Gavin because you're "Irish"? I just thought it was because you're tasteless white trash who did too much Special K while listening to 'Machine Head' on loop in the summer of 1995) Gavin dated my friend's daughter's best-friend. Gavin and Best Friend went bust as relationships between teenagers are wont to do, and as soon as the school year got in full swing, he decided he wanted to bf/gf with my friend's daughter.
The rest is a by the numbers teen tragedy. The Daughter wants to date Gavin because he's pungent with teenage alpha brooding. I mean...his f*cking name is Gavin. What, was 'Tristan' already taken? Best Friend is over eager in her endorsement of their relationship. Mom and Dad, who don't want her to date anyway, take the "you'll destroy your friendship with Best Friend" angle. After some consternation, Daughter decides to not date Gavin. Overtly anyway... Gavin, Daughter, and Best Friend are all just gonna be one cozy little hormonal quorum. Daughter tells Best Friend, and through a tearful confession, Best Friend concedes she didn't want them to date at all, and she's soooo happy. Everyone is happy. For now.
As we all know, this will ultimately come to a head. I've got summer between 9th and 10th grade circled in my sports book, but I think a savvy bettor would take the under. Several irrelevant and predictable bullets we're dodged, hell, they were never loaded or fired, but this all wraps itself up in a nice tidy thirty minute episode of The Secret Life of the American Teen. We all learned a little about love, and friendship, and family, and most importantly, we walk away unscathed. But it's the byline buried deep in this story where these 2000+ words found a foothold.
As with all 13 year old girls worth their salt, there is a wide eyed male friend sitting on the sidelines in an advisory position. His desperate love for her apparent, a tempest brewing inside a teapot shaped like an awkward teenaged boy. As my friend recounted the details about the rise and fall of Daughter and Gavin, he added this throw-a-way moment:
"And Man, she has this friend named Phillip who is totally in love with her. And Wife was like 'why doesn't she want to date Phillip' and I was like 'would you have dated Phillip at 13?'"
His wife stammered and stuttered and parried with "It's very awkward for you to ask me who I would date at 13."
Phillip's and Gavin's are the spectrum bookends. It's a movable feast as in some cases one person's Phillip is another person's Gavin, but this is the width and breadth. The narrative isn't any more complex than one being traded in for the other as the circumstances dictate, but instead the implication of Phillips and Gavins is what makes this thing disco.
Phillips are a curious case as they write the story. The trait that defines Phillips is unwavering dedication and laser like focus. These circumstances yield a man who has never had intimate companionship come with ease, and as a result they are typically nerds with a lot of time on their hands. With women like some distant mirage not there to siphon off your time and energy, images get carved in cave walls, sonnets get penned, novels get written, screenplays get made, sitcoms get green-lit. These men have had centuries to mythologize female companionship, and as a result have managed to embed two distinct Phillip plot lines in to the cultural identity. One; I'm pathetic, but I love you so much, eventually you will concede the Gavin in your life, and end up with me. Or two; when the false promise of you wanting me instead of a Gavin collapses in on itself, you leave me. In my misguided attempt to regain your affection, I find a lady Phillip. I may not see it at first, but love finds a way. In the climactic scene, you return to me, but wiser and having found my mirror, I eschew your favor for Lady Phillip who sees me for how great I am. She becomes the person who needs me like I once needed you.
Gavins, on the other hand, live the story. It's all finger banging, and women after you like some tedious task as Phillips stare on envious, determined to prove how undeserving Gavins are. Gavins often have the benefit of base level animal nature to win the day. These are the strong and fast and pheromone thick machos who have ruled tribal societies longer than Phillips have spun their romantic notions. A tincture of a Gavin's sweat can make a brothel's worth of snooches moist. One of the most provocative wrinkles in Gavin-dom is that quarterbacks and devastatingly handsome drug dealers make up this same ilk, but are pitted as opposition. Phillips tend to find strength in numbers where Gavins can only deepens their stranglehold via open warfare with other Gavins. Wether you're a prep or a soc, there is certain type that will descend in droves because it's the same cloth, just different sides.
These are the caricatured extremes, as most dudes will occupy the space in between. A Gavin who doesn't want to end up with two children from two different women--none of whom are one of the two wives who have divorced him--has swallowed some tough doses of Phillip over the years. Some are lucky enough to be just on the high side of Gavin with a strong Phillip undercurrent. Those are the dudes who work at impressive architecture firms and have already married super hot, and equally cool, mom replacements. (No, that's not about someone I know. And no, I'm not crazy jealous). The inverse is a Phillip just close enough to the Gavin's Maginot Line to toughen up a bit and woo some of the weaker Gavin devotees to his side of the fence. This might be the ideal position on the spectrum. Near-Gavins-Mostly-Phillips get all the theatre, band, and choir chicks who blossom into the deeply desirable women after so much needed hotness and character is coaxed out of them via "insert token life experience".
It seems counter-intuitive, but the absolute worst spot to be is smack dab in the middle. There is small stretch of ground cordoned off with razor wire where two hopeless cases live. One, a variety I have little sympathy compounded with an alarming amount of schadenfreude for, is the emasculated Gavin. It's a rare case, but there are Lady Gavins out there who will leave even the staunchest of Gavins as little more than scorched earth in their wake. I've found this particular scenario easier to rebound from than the opposite. These are the guys that eventually get back in to shape, and run a marathon. Confidence renewed, they bang some almost-hot-twenty-something from the steno pool, the culmination of a pitch perfect midlife crisis slow cooked in the resentment crock pot. After all, it's hard to keep a good alpha down.
The other state, a point of view from which few men can mend, is the Phillip who has tried to transform himself into a Gavin. Part of the magic of a Phillip is the near blinding heart light that leads them to so much hurt, and eventual story book happiness. Once that heart light is shuttered like a 19th Century oil lamp, it is hard to rekindle the flame. The years of posturing, and the resentment over who they haven't gotten is like poison in the ground water. It turns into this insatiable hunger for who else they could or should have. Each new love eventually dissolves into a gnawing disappointment. The vagaries of who didn't want you, or who should have wanted you, or how little being a good guy seems to have won them dims the once unfettered ability to give love. What's left is a half-formed creature, never fooling the cult of Gavins and being too far gone for those looking for their Phillip. To revisit some broad strokes, girls like bad boys, and women want a good guy, and Phillips who have betrayed their inherent Phillip-ness occupy the no man's land in between.My arms are empty in the most meaningless way... Not that I would know anything about that.
How does this elaborate carousel of Phillips and Gavins fit into our lives? In my cynicism, it seems as such: Gavins are the emblem of what is truly desirable, but unattainable. You cut your teeth and offer up your virginity like a sacrifice to the order of Gavins. Hot breath and racing heart make up the genital engorging memories of long forgotten Gavins. But, as life continues to happen, and the wounds left from Gavins salacious incisors cut so deep, the want of desire finally gives way. Tail betwixt legs, this wounded heart backslides to the open arms of whatever Phillip will serve as the bedrock for a comfortable, predictable middle class existence. No lust, no hunger, just the acceptance that what we want is no replacement for what we need.
Though buried underneath all of those hurt feelings and inability to forgive, is a quiet ember. It's the irrational hope that maybe, just on the perhaps, after a gamut of Gavins, there is a revelation. Instead of these monoliths of carnality, irresistible to weak willed women, these Gavins are revealed as an illusion. An emotionally illiterate child incapable of giving anything bigger than what they can pull out of their pants. It's no fault of their own, instead it's a challenge never laid at their feet. It was never asked or demanded of them, and it will be to their own demise if they can't learn from the Phillips across the isle. Now, instead of some concession, the Phillip is revealed as the prize. A beacon of pure love with care and concern and kindness enough no to just make love, but sustain love.
I tend to believe this all sort of grades out to the middle, but it's pretty to think so. Some will never cut the cord with Gavins other will scorn the Phillips from their lives, but life shouldn't be as idyllic as the words we can string together. No matter your current standing, embrace it. Hug your Phillip or tongue-kiss your Gavin, because without Gavins and Phillips and the spaces between to color this tapestry, love isn't worth the four hollow letters it's printed on.
To revisit my friend, his wife, their daughter, and the suitors that prop up this tale:
"Would you have dated Phillip when you were 13?"
Of course not, and my friend knows it. As a Phillip in full--a man who found his place inside the fearless love he gives and gets in return--he knows he owes a lot to all the Gavins which had to come before him. And the rest of the story tells itself...
Enter Gavin, a 14 year old born in 1997 when Bush was in between Razor Blade Suitcase and The Science of Things, Sixteen Stone a distant memory, so it's certain he's not even named after good Gavin Rossdale. (Oh? You named him Gavin because you're "Irish"? I just thought it was because you're tasteless white trash who did too much Special K while listening to 'Machine Head' on loop in the summer of 1995) Gavin dated my friend's daughter's best-friend. Gavin and Best Friend went bust as relationships between teenagers are wont to do, and as soon as the school year got in full swing, he decided he wanted to bf/gf with my friend's daughter.
The rest is a by the numbers teen tragedy. The Daughter wants to date Gavin because he's pungent with teenage alpha brooding. I mean...his f*cking name is Gavin. What, was 'Tristan' already taken? Best Friend is over eager in her endorsement of their relationship. Mom and Dad, who don't want her to date anyway, take the "you'll destroy your friendship with Best Friend" angle. After some consternation, Daughter decides to not date Gavin. Overtly anyway... Gavin, Daughter, and Best Friend are all just gonna be one cozy little hormonal quorum. Daughter tells Best Friend, and through a tearful confession, Best Friend concedes she didn't want them to date at all, and she's soooo happy. Everyone is happy. For now.
As we all know, this will ultimately come to a head. I've got summer between 9th and 10th grade circled in my sports book, but I think a savvy bettor would take the under. Several irrelevant and predictable bullets we're dodged, hell, they were never loaded or fired, but this all wraps itself up in a nice tidy thirty minute episode of The Secret Life of the American Teen. We all learned a little about love, and friendship, and family, and most importantly, we walk away unscathed. But it's the byline buried deep in this story where these 2000+ words found a foothold.
As with all 13 year old girls worth their salt, there is a wide eyed male friend sitting on the sidelines in an advisory position. His desperate love for her apparent, a tempest brewing inside a teapot shaped like an awkward teenaged boy. As my friend recounted the details about the rise and fall of Daughter and Gavin, he added this throw-a-way moment:
"And Man, she has this friend named Phillip who is totally in love with her. And Wife was like 'why doesn't she want to date Phillip' and I was like 'would you have dated Phillip at 13?'"
His wife stammered and stuttered and parried with "It's very awkward for you to ask me who I would date at 13."
Phillip's and Gavin's are the spectrum bookends. It's a movable feast as in some cases one person's Phillip is another person's Gavin, but this is the width and breadth. The narrative isn't any more complex than one being traded in for the other as the circumstances dictate, but instead the implication of Phillips and Gavins is what makes this thing disco.
Phillips are a curious case as they write the story. The trait that defines Phillips is unwavering dedication and laser like focus. These circumstances yield a man who has never had intimate companionship come with ease, and as a result they are typically nerds with a lot of time on their hands. With women like some distant mirage not there to siphon off your time and energy, images get carved in cave walls, sonnets get penned, novels get written, screenplays get made, sitcoms get green-lit. These men have had centuries to mythologize female companionship, and as a result have managed to embed two distinct Phillip plot lines in to the cultural identity. One; I'm pathetic, but I love you so much, eventually you will concede the Gavin in your life, and end up with me. Or two; when the false promise of you wanting me instead of a Gavin collapses in on itself, you leave me. In my misguided attempt to regain your affection, I find a lady Phillip. I may not see it at first, but love finds a way. In the climactic scene, you return to me, but wiser and having found my mirror, I eschew your favor for Lady Phillip who sees me for how great I am. She becomes the person who needs me like I once needed you.
Gavins, on the other hand, live the story. It's all finger banging, and women after you like some tedious task as Phillips stare on envious, determined to prove how undeserving Gavins are. Gavins often have the benefit of base level animal nature to win the day. These are the strong and fast and pheromone thick machos who have ruled tribal societies longer than Phillips have spun their romantic notions. A tincture of a Gavin's sweat can make a brothel's worth of snooches moist. One of the most provocative wrinkles in Gavin-dom is that quarterbacks and devastatingly handsome drug dealers make up this same ilk, but are pitted as opposition. Phillips tend to find strength in numbers where Gavins can only deepens their stranglehold via open warfare with other Gavins. Wether you're a prep or a soc, there is certain type that will descend in droves because it's the same cloth, just different sides.
These are the caricatured extremes, as most dudes will occupy the space in between. A Gavin who doesn't want to end up with two children from two different women--none of whom are one of the two wives who have divorced him--has swallowed some tough doses of Phillip over the years. Some are lucky enough to be just on the high side of Gavin with a strong Phillip undercurrent. Those are the dudes who work at impressive architecture firms and have already married super hot, and equally cool, mom replacements. (No, that's not about someone I know. And no, I'm not crazy jealous). The inverse is a Phillip just close enough to the Gavin's Maginot Line to toughen up a bit and woo some of the weaker Gavin devotees to his side of the fence. This might be the ideal position on the spectrum. Near-Gavins-Mostly-Phillips get all the theatre, band, and choir chicks who blossom into the deeply desirable women after so much needed hotness and character is coaxed out of them via "insert token life experience".
It seems counter-intuitive, but the absolute worst spot to be is smack dab in the middle. There is small stretch of ground cordoned off with razor wire where two hopeless cases live. One, a variety I have little sympathy compounded with an alarming amount of schadenfreude for, is the emasculated Gavin. It's a rare case, but there are Lady Gavins out there who will leave even the staunchest of Gavins as little more than scorched earth in their wake. I've found this particular scenario easier to rebound from than the opposite. These are the guys that eventually get back in to shape, and run a marathon. Confidence renewed, they bang some almost-hot-twenty-something from the steno pool, the culmination of a pitch perfect midlife crisis slow cooked in the resentment crock pot. After all, it's hard to keep a good alpha down.
The other state, a point of view from which few men can mend, is the Phillip who has tried to transform himself into a Gavin. Part of the magic of a Phillip is the near blinding heart light that leads them to so much hurt, and eventual story book happiness. Once that heart light is shuttered like a 19th Century oil lamp, it is hard to rekindle the flame. The years of posturing, and the resentment over who they haven't gotten is like poison in the ground water. It turns into this insatiable hunger for who else they could or should have. Each new love eventually dissolves into a gnawing disappointment. The vagaries of who didn't want you, or who should have wanted you, or how little being a good guy seems to have won them dims the once unfettered ability to give love. What's left is a half-formed creature, never fooling the cult of Gavins and being too far gone for those looking for their Phillip. To revisit some broad strokes, girls like bad boys, and women want a good guy, and Phillips who have betrayed their inherent Phillip-ness occupy the no man's land in between.
How does this elaborate carousel of Phillips and Gavins fit into our lives? In my cynicism, it seems as such: Gavins are the emblem of what is truly desirable, but unattainable. You cut your teeth and offer up your virginity like a sacrifice to the order of Gavins. Hot breath and racing heart make up the genital engorging memories of long forgotten Gavins. But, as life continues to happen, and the wounds left from Gavins salacious incisors cut so deep, the want of desire finally gives way. Tail betwixt legs, this wounded heart backslides to the open arms of whatever Phillip will serve as the bedrock for a comfortable, predictable middle class existence. No lust, no hunger, just the acceptance that what we want is no replacement for what we need.
Though buried underneath all of those hurt feelings and inability to forgive, is a quiet ember. It's the irrational hope that maybe, just on the perhaps, after a gamut of Gavins, there is a revelation. Instead of these monoliths of carnality, irresistible to weak willed women, these Gavins are revealed as an illusion. An emotionally illiterate child incapable of giving anything bigger than what they can pull out of their pants. It's no fault of their own, instead it's a challenge never laid at their feet. It was never asked or demanded of them, and it will be to their own demise if they can't learn from the Phillips across the isle. Now, instead of some concession, the Phillip is revealed as the prize. A beacon of pure love with care and concern and kindness enough no to just make love, but sustain love.
I tend to believe this all sort of grades out to the middle, but it's pretty to think so. Some will never cut the cord with Gavins other will scorn the Phillips from their lives, but life shouldn't be as idyllic as the words we can string together. No matter your current standing, embrace it. Hug your Phillip or tongue-kiss your Gavin, because without Gavins and Phillips and the spaces between to color this tapestry, love isn't worth the four hollow letters it's printed on.
To revisit my friend, his wife, their daughter, and the suitors that prop up this tale:
"Would you have dated Phillip when you were 13?"
Of course not, and my friend knows it. As a Phillip in full--a man who found his place inside the fearless love he gives and gets in return--he knows he owes a lot to all the Gavins which had to come before him. And the rest of the story tells itself...
No comments:
Post a Comment