Elders

I paid eight dollars and fifty cents to see "Meet The Fockers". I went with my friends to the theater in Everett. It is strange going back to my home town. The people there have very different attitudes than the people here. They are hard people, quick to defend themselves against even the most innocent glance. The young people wear very different uniforms in the south. Ones made of felt with a flag sewn on the breast. The flag reads, "FUBU". They wear rags on their heads and white suede boots with laces left untied. Even the language used amongst these bands is different. It originates from some scorned corner of the mind, and twists the faces of those that speak it. Their Generals communicate battle plans to them over the Hip Hop radio stations. Their women voluntarily receive a mark of ink on their lower backs, a signal that they are of child bearing age. For all of their rituals and customs, their playful laughter amongst themselves, is the most alluring.

One of these bands of kids sat in front of us. I cupped my hands and smiled, as I watched the boy in the far chair molest his girl friend in the shadows. With my head cocked at a slight angle, I lifted a delicate porcelain cup of dark English breakfast tea to my lips and sipped, loudly and politely. My pinky finger was lonely and pointing skyward.

The character of Mrs. Focker, played by Barbara Striesand, is a sex therapist who coaches old people in the art of sex. After all, what is the point of living to old age with out having an old hoe to do doggy style? On screen an 85 year old woman mounts her 90 year old mate in the reverse cowgirl position, while the man starts thrusting his frail hips under his wife's sagging posterior. It made me want to ralph, not laugh. Suddenly the screen filled with old people dry humping each other on yoga mats. I looked away from the screen, to the boys in front of me laughing, and the boy on the end, who had his groping hands under his girlfriend's shirt.

My friend Megan, cut a small chunk of Gorgonzola from a round brick of cheese in her lap, and passed it my way. I tasted the cheese in my teeth and in my neck and I wondered--who are the wise elders of our tribe? Do they exist?

***

I looked up from my magazine to my mom who was reclined in her big comfy chair, flipping through the 9000 direct TV channels. I see people flip through channels, but rarely do I ever see someone put down the remote and enjoy one channels programming.

"Listen to this mom. In this article, four philosophy professors were asked about the reaction on their campuses to the re-election of George Bush. They all reported that students and faculty were crushed and generally suicidal, unable to understand an American public who would support a man swayed by the interest of warfare and commerce. One professor says that, the moral interest of the public in this election could rekindled interests in ethics and moral philosophy rooted in Greek philosophy-- but that is a long-shot. They all agreed that George Bush is not the leader that America needs. They say that we need a philosopher king. Wouldn't that be great mom, a philosopher king?"

"Well of course they want a philosopher king Matt...They are philosophers. Bankers want economist kings, warriors want fighting kings, the religious want preistly kings, and Perverts want perverted kings. "

My mom sounded so wise, like she was Yoda. My mom is an elder.