Expotition

The Cloisters Museum in Manhattan is one of my favorite places in New York, which places it high in the running for one of my favorite places in the world. Stephanie and I make it a point to go at least a couple of times a year, although we prefer it best in autumn. Wandering up (the long way!) through Fort Tryon Park to approach it from the South, seeing it first in the distance and then seeing it loom glorious, large, right up close... it feels like a pilgrimage writ small. If you'll pardon the not particularly awesome simile. There's a grandness there, is what I'm trying to say.



Last Saturday, we headed out for our Annual Autumnal Visit, with the gorgeous walk and the crunching leaves underfoot and just the most beautiful crisp day. The sky was blue, the trees were many-hued, and we had packed lunch because we are poor. The walk was--as expected--lovely, but when we got in the front door EEP! Crowded. Far too crowded. Crowded crowded crowded.

I... am not a fan of crowds. We backed slowly out the door. We basically have the museum memorized, at this point-- it's not as if we're missing out on the art. Had it been our first trip, we certainly would have braved it. But as I find stillness part of its appeal (it's *Cloisters* please recall), an alternate suggestion was proffered: what if we were to just... walk North? Already being near the upper tip of Manhattan, it wouldn't be that long of a walk to just head up there and see it. Exploring new neighborhoods is one of my most favorite things to do, and we had a beautiful day, and good walking shoes, and basically no reason not to go.

Alors: we went.

After clearing the northern edge of the park, we just struck out northerly on Broadway. We joked about the stores. We thought about stopping for a 1pm beer (Woo!). We looked into a very small branch of the New York Public Library. And then, across the street, we saw what appeared to be an 18th Century Dutch Farmhouse.

Guess the hell what? IT WAS AN 18th CENTURY DUTCH FARMHOUSE. Still there. Remaining from the time that upper New York was forests and farmland. Yes, we had found the Dyckman Farmhouse Museum which was completely empty of other people (except for the lovely Emily who did her graduate work in Museum Studies and who is the keeper of the Farmhouse Museum. She is super-cool and we want to be her friends). We had traded the crowded to capacity museum for one in which we were literally the only guests.

So yes. $1 entrance fee, and we had ourselves the run of the house. Each of the rooms is marked with an excellent description of of its contents (and how they are different now than they were then). It's very well curated, except for an oddly out-of-place exhibit that contained an "explanation" of what it means to be Dutch. I thought that either needed to be expanded or scrapped... but other than that the place was very cool. Outside the house proper there are plaques (plastic plaques. plasques?) explaining the history of the house, showing the placement of the old well, explaining what a Hessian Hut is, commenting on the renovation of the grounds in the early 20th Century. There's a way that places like that have of giving me--just for a moment--an idea or a fleeting feeling of how things used to be that is thrilling. Just thrilling.

It is, in a word, fantastically freaking cool. Three words. In three words, I meant.

And the best thing of all is that there are 21 more homes kept as museums by the Historic House Trust of New York City. Meaning that I have my next few free weekend days planned out.

If you're heading up to the Cloisters anyway (you should, really) spare an hour to check it out. You'll get to stand in a house that's been kept there since Washington was chillin'. A real honest to goodness bit of intact U.S. History. Good. Stuff.

So: we made it up to the top of Manhattan, crossed the river to the Bronx, and attempted to take the subway back downtown. The station was closed.

We walked. Which was the better choice anyway.

I'm also a client.

There is no longer any way to hide it, to deny it, or to pretend it isn't happening.

It's happening. It's happening right now, and you know it. You've been ignoring it for too long, not saying anything, tiptoeing around the issue. This is inexcusable. We can't afford that any longer. It's time to face the facts:

I am going bald.

And I believe I speak for everyone here when I say: fuck.

If you'll allow me to get introspective and all self-image focused and all... well... "bloggy" for a second (you are, after all, at my blog, and should have been expecting it) this realization has put me through the emotional ringer. I've been in a funk for the better part of the week (not the good kind, where the bass riff is all groovy). Stephanie noticed before I did, and asked me earlier this week if anything was wrong. "Yes," I didn't say, "That's why I've been all moody and binge-eating like I just found out that starting on Wednesday there won't be any more food ever." Instead I said "Of course not, I'm fine!" and then I started in on my fifth or sixth helping of dinner and sort of stared at the floor for an hour. "Just fine!"

Oh, and I also have vitiligo. Which means that eventually, I may turn into, basically, a naked mole rat. Pigmentless, hairless, I shall have no choice but to burrow deep, deep underground where I shall not be mocked by the harsh light of the sun or the sound of woman screaming "Dear God, what is that thing?"

Many men, of course, go bald. This is true. Great men, from Patrick Stewart to Mikhail Gorbachev to Bruce Willis lose their hair and still find ways to explore strange new worlds, bring down communism, or pretend to have hair (respectively). There's probably a market for an Everybody Poops-type book for men called A Lot of Men Go Bald And It Doesn't Mean You're Ugly It Just Means You're Special In A Hairless Way actually, you know what? Scratch the book idea.

So, yes. I'm troubled by the fact that I'm losing my hair. I'm also troubled by the fact that I'm SO DAMN TROUBLED by the fact that I'm losing my hair. I would not have thought that I was so vain. It's unfortunate that my self-image--a non-vain person with hair--would suddenly be so wrong (on two counts!). I wish that I were not distressed about this, but it turns out that I am. Which really bothers me.

I can, of course, justify it by saying that I'm not concerned about my appearance, I'm just concerned about getting older. In much the same way that my brother (that hairy bastard) said "Oh... I'm sorry" several years ago when I told him I was getting glasses. "Why?" I asked, honestly bewildered. "I just remember what it was like when I started feeling that I was getting old," he responded with a sigh. I didn't feel it then. I definitely feel it now. There was at least a good chance that I would go bald in my life. I just didn't think it would happen at 25 years of age. Look at him. Look at him there with his long flowing locks.
Unfortunately, I don't think there are a lot of good options, here. As Dave Barry once wrote,

Should balding white men shave their heads, the way many African-American men, such as Michael Jordan, do?

A. No. It's not fair, but the simple truth is that balding African-American men look cool when they shave their heads, whereas balding white men look like giant thumbs.

Was true then, is true now. I don't really want to rock the Picard, I would never ever ever do a comb-over or that spider's nest thing that some old guys do, and I'm really interested in not looking like I'm pretending it's not happening. In fact, I promised myself that if I were ever going bald, I would cut my hair really short, which seems to be the only reasonable answer. Well that day is upon us. I must keep my promise to myself, methinks. My clippers and I have an appointment tonight.

I know that there are hair-regrowth remedies that have met with some measure of success. Last week, on the recommendation of a fellow balding 20-something, I picked up some Rogaine Foam, which I rather think has increased the speed of my hair loss.

I don't like that this is happening, I don't like my emotional reaction to it, and, yes, I don't like thinking about getting older.

This sucks, you know?

Only thing left to do is to compensate by growing a Civil War Mustache. That'll woo the ladies.

Sigh.

Thanksgiving! A! Pageant!

Said pageant features Slaney Chadwick Ross, Briana Mowrey, Preston Martin, Albert Hwang, Derrick Karg, Pearce Larson and intoducing Elon Rutberg as Squanto.

Look, either you're paying $10 for a hilarious show and you get to drink for free, or you're paying $10 for an hour of drinking and you get a hilarious show free. Either one of those is worth $10 but--and here's where it gets really clever--you're going to get both of them.

So come to Greenpoint on Saturday. Trust me, I don't like Brooklyn any more than you do (and possibly substantially less than you do), but it's going to be worth it.