43
Having
arrived in this world at the end of the 1950s, I am, whether I like it or not,
a member of the so-called "baby boom" generation, a certified Wonder
Bread wonder, if you will. On this, the eve of my forty-third birthday, I also
realize that I have reached the age my father was when I finally asked my
parents how old they were. They may have told me their age at an earlier date,
but I was a kid, what did I care? ‘The Flintstones’ was about to start.
43.
It was the age I decided then, and consider now, as the age of passage into
bona fide "olderdom," the time of life when one realizes that
certain plateaus have been reached and there is no going back to the frivolity
and whimsy of my youth. It’s that age when you finally face the reality that
the cute little nineteen-year old coed clerking part-time at the 7-Eleven
isn’t flirting with you, that the only reason she smiles at you is because
that is part of her job or you remind her of her father. Either way, all the
Viagra in the world isn’t going to get you to first base unless you speak
with a New England accent and your last name happens to be Kennedy.
Mind
you, I do not look upon this time with melancholia, nor do I intend to run out
and buy a Porsche, join a health club or commit to plastic surgery in a futile
attempt to live out the illusion of my strapping, hard-bodied, lady-killing
younger days. Perhaps it is because those days never existed in the first
place, but that is beside the point. I am older now and there is not thing one
I can or want to do about it.
In
fact, I intend to embrace olderdom. The pressure is off. I can finally act my
age, be proud of it, and revel in the nostalgia of a simpler and more carefree
time of rock and roll, root beer floats, Beach Boys music, the Vietnam War,
Christmas mornings, mass protests, drive-in movies, minority unrest, picnics
at the lake, full-scale riots, cruising on Saturday nights, assassinations and
such like. Not to mention the late seventies and early eighties, most of which
I spent stoned out of my skull, so when nostalgia from that period becomes the
rage it will all seem new because damned if I can remember any of it now.
Another
positive about turning forty-three: I don’t have to pretend I like Limp
Bizkit or Korn anymore. I still like Metallica and Pearl Jam, but they are so
twentieth century that listening to and enjoying their music is no longer
considered hip. Too bad. "Enter Sandman" still kicks ass. Sue me.
In
fact, I think it’s time that the entire baby-boom generation realizes that
they are no longer relevant. It’s time for us to step aside and let the Gen
X-ers take the wheel. They’re getting older themselves, and nobody under the
age of thirty-five wants to hear about the Beatles any more than we wanted to
hear our parents talk about the Hi-Los or the Mills Brothers. Nobody wants to
know how our generation "stood for something." Our parents had
Hitler and McCarthy, we had Vietnam and Watergate, and the generations to
follow will have their own issues to concern themselves with after they sober
up. Let’s move on.
I
look forward to my declining years. I will get discounts. People will stand up
and give me their seats on the bus. I will sit at a bar or alongside a
swimming pool talking about my aches, pains and upcoming operations and nobody
will tell me to shut the hell up for fear that I will give them a shot upside
the head with my cane. Assault charges? Pshaw! The judge and the DA and my
public defender will all smile benignly at me in my dotage and let me off with
time served. They do it all the time on TV.
So instead of rising up, I say sit down, Baby Boomers! We have lived our lives. Relax, pop open a beer, confiscate the baseball that the neighbors’ kids had the temerity to hit into your yard (by all means, DO NOT try to throw it back, you might displace a hip). Kick back, light up a joint, crack open that can of Snack Pack tapioca pudding, turn on the television and guffaw at what a card that Andy Rooney is. Or a George Carlin HBO special. Not that there's much difference between the two anymore.
Ease up. Enjoy life. ‘The Flinstones’ is about to start.
Return to More Articles&Columns
Return to BillKleinOnLine