I Haven't Done Jack in 33 Years . . . Or Steve, Either

My birthday week is upon us. In the future, I imagine this week will be marked by parades and bank closures. It will be a time when people throughout North America will gather and reflect on my existence. Of course, for those who follow the religion of CoG, my birthday will be one of the high-holy days. I expect that ceremonies will involve a ritual humming of the Charlie’s Angels theme song and maybe a game of bullets-and-bracelets.

Well, okay, maybe that isn’t exactly what is going to happen with my birthday in the future. Still, thinking about such things is far better than considering the Supreme Court’s decisions to limit our rights and to maintain a racist and class-biased education system. It’s also much better than thinking about the debacle that was called immigration “reform.” My fantasy world is a happier place – The sky is purple there.

In reality, however, the passing of my birthday in the next couple of days just means that I have turned thirty-three. Aging doesn’t particularly bother me (though I would like more hair and hope that hair which remains continues to linger). As always, though, I like to compare where I am with my life at thirty-three with where other people were at this same age:

If I were Jacqueline Kennedy at age thirty-three, this would be my last year in the White House.

If I were Jesus at age thirty-three, I would die this year.

If I were Pierre Trudeau, I would be busy editing the journal Cité Libre.

If I were Mary Richards, I would have moved to Minneapolis three years ago. This year, I would also cut my hair, thus ending the show in GayProf’s eyes (despite it going on for another four years). Long-haired Mary or nothing.

If I were Emiliano Zapata, I would have issued my Plan de Ayala a year ago. My attention at thirty-three would be focused on trying to oust the military dictator Victoriano Huerta under my call for "Tierra y Libertad."



If I were Pancho Villa, I would have another three years before I became instrumental in thwarting Huerta’s dictatorial ambitions.

If I were Harvey Milk, it would be another 14 years before I became the first openly gay elected official in a major U.S. city.

If I were James Dean, I would have been dead for nine years.

If I were César Chávez, I would need another seven years before I founded the precursor to the UFW with Dolores Huerta.

If I were Dolores Huerta, I would have founded the precursor to the UFW with César Chávez last year.

If I were Rita Moreno, I would have won the Oscar for my portrayal of “Anita” in West Side Story three years ago.

If I were Oscar Wilde, this would be the year that I started working for the Pall Mall Gazette.

If I were Blake Harper, this would be the year that I win the GayVN award for “Gay Performer of the Year” for my diligent work in porn.

If I were GayProf, this would be the year that I move to Midwestern Funky Town to start a new life – again.

If I were Larry Hagman, I would be given the role of Anthony Nelson on the television show I Dream of Jeannie this year.



If I were Hernán Cortés, I would launch Spain’s invasion of Mexico this year.

If I were Thomas Jefferson, this would be the year that I draft the Declaration of Independence (much to the historical chagrin of forgotten Richard Henry Lee).

If I were Che Guevara, I would be serving as Cuba’s Minister of Industries.

If I were Marilyn Monroe, I would film Some Like it Hot at age 33.

If I were George W. Bush, I would be a major failure and an embarrassment to all of humanity (this is true at any age).

If I were Kate Jackson, I would have left Charlie’s Angels three years ago. It would be another two years before I starred in Scarecrow and Mrs. King.

If I were Farrah Fawcett, I would have left Charlie’s Angels three years ago.

If I were Jaclyn Smith, I would be the last of the “original” Charlie’s Angels still on the show.

If I were either of my parents, I would already have three children. The youngest would be five years old (who would later grow up to be the most desirable man on the blogosphere).

If I were the titular character in the song “Good Time Charlie’s Got the Blues,” my heart would keep tellin’ me that you’re not a kid at thirty-three.

If I were Joaquin Murrieta, it would have been nine years since the California Rangers executed me. My head would currently be on display in a jar of brandy as a curiosity for interested Euro Americans willing to pay a buck.

If I were Dolly Parton, I would start filming 9 to 5 this year.

If I were William Shatner, it would be two years before I accepted the television role of Captain Kirk.

If I were Captain Kirk, I would have been commanding the U.S.S. Enterprise for two years.

If I were Billie Holiday, I would have just been released from jail for a conviction on drug charges. I would be banned from performing anywhere in New York for the rest of my life.

If I were Walt Whitman, I would be busy writing the first edition of Leaves of Grass. It would be another three years before I would become world-famous with its publication.

If I were Elvis Presley, this would be the year that I filmed my 1968 Comeback Special for NBC.

If the people want me to be President of the United States, it will be another two years before that will be allowed by the Constitution.

If I were Anne Bancroft, it would only be another three years before I played Mrs. Robinson in The Graduate (which is kinda depressing to think she was that young and considered over the hill).

If I were Seth Green, this would be the year that I produced the special "Star Wars" episode of Robot Chicken.

If I were Reies López Tijerina, I would send a letter to President Dwight Eisenhower asking that the Federal Government investigate the dispossession of Mexicans in New Mexico. It would be another three years before I founded La Alianza Federal de Mercedes.

If I were Eva Perón, I would die this year.

If I were Malcolm X, this would be the year that I married Betty. It would be another five years before I write my autobiography.

If I were Brad Pitt, I would probably have better things to do than write lists about other people’s accomplishments at age 33. Actually, this might be true about everybody mentioned.

If I were Freddie Mercury, this would be the year that I write the song “Crazy Little Thing Called Love.”

If I were Wonder Woman, I would age another 2,458 years before joining Patriarch’s world to fight crime.