Hugo Schwyzer

As I contemplate turning forty in a few short months, I’m noting it’s been a bad month for other famous folks born in 1967.

The first truly famous pop-culture figure from 1967 was the late Kurt Cobain; he died on the very same day in April ‘94 that I was offered a full-time tenure-track job here at PCC.

Last week, Anna Nicole Smith (six months my junior, born November ‘67) died.  Keith Urban (October ‘67), now married to Nicole Kidman, has been in and out of rehab.  And two weeks ago, news broke of the unfortunate fall from grace of Gavin Newsom, the mayor of San Francisco. Newsom (born October ‘67), whose career I’ve followed since he was first elected to the Board of Supervisors when he was barely 30, has confessed to having an affair with the wife of a long-time campaign aide.  He has also, like Urban, entered treatment for alcoholism.  I once thought he would be the first person younger than me to be elected president; that prospect seems somewhat less likely.

Other 1967ers seem to be doing fine.  I’m turning forty this year with Julia Roberts, Faith Hill, and my fellow animal rights activist, darling Pamela Anderson.  But for some reason, the sad end to Anna Nicole’s life and the tawdry revelations about Mayor Newsom have me lamenting the varied misfortunes of my fellow 39 year-olds.  Clearly, some of us won’t ever see forty, and some of us (like Newsom, who has also been dating a twenty year-old) seem eager to pretend that this momentous milestone isn’t happening to us.

As for me, I’m quite excited about my fortieth.  I think I’ll have a party, the first proper birthday party I’ll have had since I turned 21.  And don’t anticipate any falls from grace on my end!  But however eager I am to hit this milestone, I’m also spending at least a bit of time thinking about my fellow ‘67-ers, and the various triumphs and tragedies that have befallen them.