The Gay Uncle noticed that the venerable New York Times ran an article this weekend about how summer camps are having to change up their routines to cater to the current generation of parents. He didn’t bother to read the piece–the photo of a bunch of anxious women keening to get their children’s attention from behind the roped-off camp entrance before the start of visitor’s day was enough to let him know that it was going to be another screed about our contemporary breed of uptight, manipulative, egocentric, overprotective, micromanaging, neurotic, backstabbing moms and dads. Gunc says, kudos to the old gray lady for shooting this barreled fish, not only because he loves reading spirited denunciations (read: headlines) concerning his target demographic, but because it reminded him that he’d planned to write about camp the other week, but was distracted by getting drunk with his friends on the Cape. Whoops!
When their nine nieces were still infants and toddlers, The G.U. and his boyfriend Tal started hatching a long-term plan to eventually host a week-long retreat for all of these girls, to be held at their house upstate. They even hoped to build a cabin on a piece of property they own across the road to accommodate the campers. They cleared a path up to the site. They asked a friend to create a modular design. And in true gay fashion, they even designed a logo for Girls’ Camp (involving log letters) and an activities schedule (spitting, smoking, swearing, sawing, sewing). But as the nieces aged up, the Guncles avoided bringing the plan to fruition. Tal’s sister Lizzie finally confronted them by the tree during a family Christmas a few years back. “You two were so gung ho about Girl’s Camp. Why didn’t you ever start it up?” The G.U. glanced over at his nieces, who were engaged in a shouting match about who received the most Christmas gifts. “Well. We met the girls.”
Fast forward to this year, when four of the Guncles’ nieces coincidentally ended up attending the same sleep-away camp. Being the dutiful G.U.’s that they are, he and Tal sent letters to the girls at their bunk, describing their own summer activities (write, bike, drink, sleep, repeat), inquiring after theirs, and asking if there was anything they needed. Recalling the glories of sharing in the contraband received by other kids when they were boys at camp (their parents not having been the kind to send a single fucking thing), the Gay Uncles plotted purchases: whistle pops for sending secret signals between cabins, gummy eyeballs for grossing out the prissy campers, licorice ropes that could be tied into edible lanyards–or nooses! Eventually, they received a response. Only the most dutiful of the nieces–Amber–had managed to write back, but she failed to include a booty shopping list. This felt suspicious. So once she was home from Unicorn Village, the G.U. gave her a ring and asked for an explanation. “We’re not allowed to receive candy or any off-limits items,” she said, somewhat robotically. “That’s the whole idea,” Gunc said. “We sneak it in to you. That’s what makes it fun.” The girl paused and lowered her voice as if concerned that someone might be listening in. “They open our packages,” she whispered. “They open all our mail.” The G.U. thought to write a letter to the camp director, the local Unicorn Village newspaper, or even the Postal Police, with a tirade about protecting the time honored tradition of sending junky treats to campers, not to mention the sanctity of the U.S. mail. But, given the nature of our hideous times, he figured that the girls’ parents had probably had to sign away their privacy rights in the name of protecting campers from bio-terror or online predators. “Next year, if you go back to that came” he told his niece, “I’m sending you a metal file.”
The Gay Uncle received a startling phone call the other day. It was “Aunt E.” a fast-talking, joke-cracking, old family friend, who just so happens to have been the director of the first pre-school he attended as a wee lad in Detroit–a little place called Wee Wisdom. He hadn’t heard from her in exactly forever, but her message was straightforward: she was coming to New York to visit her son, and wanted to get together for a drink or lunch or something. Sadly, the G.U. was going to be out of town during her planned visit, but they managed to catch up during an extended phone conversation. Aunt E. had read about his book, and expressed her pride in his accomplishment. She also mentioned an advice book she’s been working based on her career working with young kids (a manuscript he looks forward to reading, especially since she described the first chapter as being about whining.) Finally, she regaled him with humorous stories about her own struggles bearing witness to contemporary parents, including a cringe-worthy anecdote concerning a young mother’s not-so-gentle reaction to a game of “Snow-Plow” involving a four year-old, a toy bulldozer, a wooden dining room floor, and a twenty-five pound bag of rice. After hanging up, G.U. thought about Aunt E’s hilarious, insightful, intelligent, snarky, and tack-sharp perspective in all things related to young kids, and he made a startling realization: she is his earliest and most central inspiration. So he just wants to say thanks to her for loving kids, for loving his annoying little self as a kid, and for being such a perfect role model. Everyone has those teachers they remember and look up to, The Gay Uncle couldn’t be more pleased that he ended up becoming just like one of his.
While in Provincetown with his “nieces”, the Gay Uncle and his youthful ward Tal had occasion to watch the girls engage in some compellingly dangerous activities: playing in the ocean, consuming immense portions of artery clogging fried foods, and exploring his friend Danika’s grandparents’ eerie 19th century estate. The house has a tiny cupola atop its oldest portion, accessible only through a creaky series of stairways that climb along the edge of what used to be a barn, up into a strange balconied mezzanine, and then through a door and into a dark attic. Danika’s older daughter Erica is somewhat cautious, and generally avoids the space–sticking to prowling the yard looking for blueberries and bunnies–but her younger daughter Anna is more adventurous (reckless?) in spirit, and when offered the opportunity, clambered up there. She was gone for a few minutes, and when she returned, Guncle Tal asked her about her explorations. “I saw a ghost,” she said, flatly. “It went whoo-whoo at me.” Tal wanted to ask her more questions about this sighting, but it usually takes him a beat or two longer than necessary to come up with age-appropriate follow-ups even on ordinary subjects, and he felt flustered. He tried “who was the ghost?” and “did you see it?” and maybe “was it nice?” but he asked all three questions one after another, the second based on his insecurity about the comprehensibility and appropriateness of the first, and so on and so on, thus creating inevitable brain-fritz. Anna stared at him. “Can I have a popsicle now?” she asked. He and Gunc wish to remind parents (and uncles) that, when dealing with children’s reactions to the supernatural (or anything else–it’s nearly all supernatural to them), it’s important to s-l-o-w down, and allow time for answers.
The Gay Uncle remains on Cape Cod this week. Having finished with his pregnant pals in Brewster, he and his boyfriend have moved up the Cape to Provincetown to spend time with some folks whose kids are on the outside, his friend Danika and her two girls to be precise: Erica, 8 and Anna, 5. Gunc adores these two (and their parents) and looks forward to his annual visit with them each summer, particularly their stellar beach days, which always revolve around digging holes, building castles, eating ice cream sandwiches (emphasis on the sand), competing to tell the most boring story, and, of course, splashing in the ocean. Erica has recently emerged as a more confident swimmer, and braved the waves on her own, but Anna still required a grown-up to help her feel grounded in the choppy surf. G.U. was on the shore catching up with his friend during the first plunge, and his b.f. Tal took on this job, a role for which he was roundly praised. “What a nice Uncle,” Danika said to her daughters. When the next swim trip came up an hour or so later, Gunc volunteered to brave the cool water with the kids. Anna reached out for him. “Take me in too,” she begged. The Gay Uncle wanted a moment to accustom himself to the temperature first. “Just a sec,” he said. Anna stomped her foot and put a hand on her hip. “Come on,” she protested. “Don’t you want to be a nice Grandpa, like the other one?” Gunc flushed in the chilly surf. “Uncle,” he said quietly, rubbing his hand through his graying hair. “Not grandpa. Uncle.”
The Gay Uncle is out on Cape Cod this week, hanging out with a cadre of friends from high school. Because these folks all exist as part of the same demographic bubble–moving through life together, like a sheep through a snake–many of their milestones have occurred around the same time: completing grad school, getting married, buying a place, having a baby. Thus, it was no great surprise when, while coordinating the get-together, it was revealed that four of this group of ten are pregnant with their sophomore baby:one of them with twins! This thrilled G.U., as it meant that the competition around the bar at cocktail time would be at least 40% less fierce than it’s been at past reunions. But, given his love of conflict, he was also excited about discussing sibling rivalry. True to form, he’s managed to instigate (incite?) a number of conversations about the subject. His parent friends have a lot of worries about this topic, and rightfully so, fratricide being a common theme in some of our founding documents (The Bible, Hamlet, The Lion King). But while Gunc outlined a number of useful suggestions for helping his pals ease the transition (
Do you know what this is a picture of? That’s right, it is an American Airlines Premier Class in-flight magazine, available to those lucky souls who get to fly First or Business (as the Gay Uncle recently did, due to a fortuitous last-minute upgrade). It is full of boring articles about the fifty best golf courses in Asia, and the fastest convertibles under $300,000, as well as about seven hundred pictures of expensive watches. It is made of thick, glossy paper–much higher quality than the regular in-flight magazine– and is slightly over-sized in a way meant to convey insouciant luxury. Do you know why it exists? It is there solely to deliver advertising to those people stupid, or disinterested, or anti-intellectual enough to not bring something of their own to read during the twenty or thirty minutes when there is no televised in-flight entertainment. Do you know what it is not for? It is not for your nanny to use as a feeding trough for your noisy three year-old. But that’s just what the Gay Uncle witnessed at 38,000 feet. A 20’s-ish Croatian woman seated next to her young charge asked him if he wanted something to eat, and when the little bugger responded in the affirmative, she grabbed a handful of Toasty-Crisps from a zip-loc bag, plopped them on the cover of Celebrated Living (right over Sheryl Crow’s boobs, G.U. couldn’t help but notice), and then held the magazine aloft in a horizontal position parallel with the boy’s mouth. At which point Mr. Man proceeded to commence grazing: roving his face over the cover and sucking off flakes, like a catfish clearing algae from the side of a tank. The nanny beamed down at him with an eerily prideful gaze, as if this was a charming little ritual they’d developed together in private. Gunc rolled his eyes, and repeated the mantra he’s recently created for dealing with instances of poor public parenting: Divest, remove. Divest, remove.
Since July 4th weekend is all about fireworks, it seems like a perfect time for the Gay Uncle to relate the last–and most personally explosive–of his vacation anecdotes. It concerns a certain adult male family member losing his cool, and it is not Gunc’s Brother-in-Law Marty this time. He’s speaking of himself! Here’s the setting: G.U. is “enjoying” the last day of a week-long family trip, he’s seated in the back seat of a nauseatingly jauncy Jeep on twisty third-world roads en route to the far side of the island, hungover from the previous nights festivities (read: two games of go-fish with his cheating nieces), stomach-growlingly hungry. Since there is not enough room in the rental cars for all family members (?!?) he has a niece on his lap, as does his boyfriend Tal, and said girls have been bickering since before the engine started. During the ride, the Gay Uncles did their best to quell the conflict by engaging the beasties in a game Tal invented called “Recipe” in which someone mentions a food (a grapefruit, saltines, beef jerky) and then each player in turn gets to do something to the ingredient (put it in a blender, add pig blood, freeze it into a slushy, slice it razor thin and layer it on your face). The game went pretty well, save the fact that the nieces kept trying to kill one another with their recipes (“Then Violet eats it all and dies.”) and eventually had to be called on this account. By the time their car finally arrived at the beach, and G.U. and his lapmate piled out, the tension was thick, so when his partner started screaming for Tal’s partner to pass her her pink flip-flops from the floor well, G.U. decided to intervene. “Violet, can you please give me Brooke’s shoes.” Amped up, Violet grinned and grabbed the sandals, and before he knew what had happened, she flung one of them out of the car. This wasn’t at all what her tired and patient uncle had asked her to do, but worse than this, the shoe hit him right between the eyes, denting his (intentionally cheap) sunglasses. Last straw, meet camel’s back. Gunc’s nostrils flared, his pulse quickened, and he asked the question one should never ask a misbehaving child. “WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?” he hollered. “I asked you to hand me the shoes, not throw them at my face.” His niece shrugged, unconcerned. “Sorry…?” she said, with utter insincerity. “Fake apology not accepted,” Gunc replied, turning away. “Now pick up your cousin’s shoes and hand them to her like I asked you to.” The Gay Uncle felt bad for losing his cool–and particularly for the idiotic rhetorical question, something he abhors–but his niece remained calm through their picnic lunch, and played with her cousins independently and without incident for the remainder of the afternoon. He is planning on going into full Nazi mode at the very start of the next family trip.
The Gay Uncle has returned from the tropics, now well informed of the difference between a TRIP and a VACATION (the latter is what one goes on without children), and ready to share his new pearls of wisdom. The first one revolves around wild animals. Due to some cruel Darwinian twist, the island of St. John–on which G.U. was tripping–is overrun with gangs of feral donkeys. One sees them everywhere–along the side of the road, among the ruins of Colonial sugar refineries, brushing past Jeeps in mini-mart parking lots””baring their menacing smiles and, when they”re feeling randy, their even more menacing erections! G.U. got to witness one of these first hand when he came upon a horny burro couple during a total-family snorkeling excursion. Donkey dick, indeed! Said member was roughly the size and shape of a baseball bat, and disappeared none too quickly into the female. As daddy climbed aboard and began rutting, G.U.”s three nieces watched in frozen horror. Fortunately, his brother-in-law Marty was on hand to explain the situation. “The one on the bottom is trying to give the other one a piggy back ride.”¯ Gunc reminded himself not to offer the girls said ride ever again.