The boys of summer...

Do you remember when? Does it make you feel older?

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These "Bet You're Not Old Enough To Remember" posts are like a plague on facebook, and yet I still am amazed at how old they make me feel. Of the 11 references in this article I immediately recognized every single one (even though a couple were barely memories even from childhood). I can sympathize with the youngster who doesn't recognize Eeell Gibbons, but SURELY everyone knows who Archie Bunker is??? And it isn't the fact that I recognize them that makes me old, or even that the youngsters might not recognize them. I feel old BECAUSE I *THINK* THEY WILL RECOGNIZE THEM. And then they don't. That's when I feel the real disconnect between the generations and realize I'm consigned to a particular place and time that is terra incognita for the movers and shakers of the modern world.

Not to say that some of the references deserve to be remembered. Some are better off forgotten for their actions/statements and others simply because their notoriety is so utterly trivial. Twiggy, anyone? Others barely hang on to their place in the nostalgia machine because they are an aspect of something just as trivial yet a bit more amusing. For instance, the rumor that Alice Cooper was the guy who played Eddie Haskell in "Leave It To Beaver". But it's all in vain, because only a couple of decades will erase all memory not only of Eddie Haskell but of Alice Cooper and "Leave It To Beaver" as well. Oh, sure, there will be revivals down the road. But even that phenomenon cannot completely save our pop culture heroes from obscurity. When's the last time you heard a big band blowin' out some swing tune from the 40s on the radio/internet/whatever? And that's not even 100 years ago. What was the scene like in 1912? Have to ask grandpa. See if he remembers.

Anita Bryant? Well, she's certainly no Fred Phelps, but do we really want to keep her memory alive as anything other than a cautionary tale? Even if you agree with the gist of what she had to say (I don't) surely there's no way anyone can condone the way she said it. Foster Brooks? Ah, yes, the good old days when alcoholism wasn't considered a disease. It was a time when 12 Step programs settled for 8 or 9 steps. The days when the Marlboro Man rustled herds of cattle and Spuds MacKinzie rolled out the kegs of Bud (I'll bet ya not too many people remember good old Spuds!). Bad stuff to be sure but I'd take it all back in a heartbeat if they'd get rid of all those emberassing Viagra ads. Oh for the good old days when an erection lasting longer than 4 hours was considered a good reason to pull out the ole Black Book, pick up the phone and start dialing. We didn't need or even want to know that such a miraculous phenomenon required a visit to the doctor. 4 hours, man, I'm not gonna need no doctor, I'm gonna need an undertaker (if you catch my drift, and I think you do, nudge-nudge, wink-wink, say no more).

I have to wonder, though, if my embarassment of Viagra ads isn't yet another vestige of my perception. My generation, as teens, may have had Playboy magazines stuffed between our mattresses...year old copies found in our dad's dresser, likely...but we were ignorant about sexuality. Well, obviously I can only speak for the male segment of the spectrum...I don't have a clue what the gals were up to. I only knew that they were usually a lot more mature about the subject so they must not have had a Hugh Hefner or a Bob Guccione to corrupt them.

What I'm (unsuccessfully) trying to say here is that I don't think kids get red faced at the concepts set forth in the disclaimer & side effects rider of a Viagra commercial. When I say "kids" I'm talking about older teens, younger tweens, and I may just be incredibly naive thinking that kids that age in my day weren't as enlightened, but I know I wasn't. I watch an episode of "New Girl" and I think, my God, that really goes for the blue humor (in case anyone doesn't remember the term, blue humor is basically the same as "dirty jokes". If "dirty jokes" has passed from the idiom I don't know what to tell you). I am probably a prude when it comes down to it, but I would be embarassed watching "New Girl" with my 27 year old daughter. Hell, I'd be embarassed to watch it with my 40 year old wife. I know, that's pathetic of me. Childish, even. I think of it as being "over protective" and maybe it's a hold out from the time when I beat that punk Laurence to a pulp for shouting obscenities within hearing distance of our elderly neighbor, Mrs. Huggins. I can't help it. I don't want my friends and loved ones to descend into the deep, dark, nasty pit I fell into long ago.

Which takes me back to where I came from...This is the kind of thing that makes me feel old. Kids are just smarter than they were when I was one of them. More savvy. Even the miscreants have more street smarts. I don't guess I should expect, or be disappointed, that they don't know Joe Friday or the Indian guy getting all teary-eyed because pollution has ruined his ancestral hunting grounds. It goes both ways, to a small extent. I don't think I would recognize Kim Kardasian if she had one of those "Hello! My Name Is..." tags on her blouse. I've never gotten more than 10 seconds into a Britney Spears song. I'm clueless as to why anyone gives a flying fart about Lindsey Lohan. I feel like a dirty old pervert when I contemplate how really good looking Zooey Daschenel is. I can count the number of post-2000 bands I really like on one hand. TV? Is the news on yet? Okay, you turn it on.

In the long run I think these facebook "nostalgia" posts are so popular because they would seem to suggest that, hey, I may be old but I've got something you don't have! Unfortunately the typical response is probably hey, that's ok, you keep it. It makes us feel good to be reminded of those things which, hey, even WE had forgotten until someone else's post reminded us. We like this stuff because it gives us a chance to revel in the generation gap. It's a bittersweet undertaking but one that offers perspective. Not just of how wide that gap becomes the older we get. We can recover memories lost between the horns of that gap by viewing a You Tube video of the Groovy Ghoulies. A picture of Linda Blair becomes a piece in a jigsaw puzzle that's always been there, scattered with all the others around the part you've already put together. It just somehow came loose, waiting for you to find it and put it back where it belonged. The bizarre experience of playing cardboard records cut from cereal boxes, held down on the turntable with nickels, becomes an esoteric bond between those for whom the very idea isn't patently ridiculous. "Hey, you think Marilyn Manson is outreagous? Well, come over here and let me introduce you to Alice Cooper". "Yes, son, that's the third re-make of this movie. When we get home we can watch the original. It's so much better." A bridge of sorts.

Assuming, that is, that anyone wants to cross it.

A Precious Moment Hoarded

By day and through night
My brothers and sisters waited for him.
I never knew he was gone.

In a house heavy with history forgotten,
Save a few precious moments, hoarded,
That barely made up for an hour but at least they were mine.

I found myself last night,
With all that I'd lost,
Cowering in a corner.

The reasons, submerged beneath a thick, black muck of subconscious
Thought, I would just as soon not know.
I tried so hard to shove forgiveness down his throat when it was too late and he didn't need it.

There we were, wide-eyed and grateful,
Locked in each other's arms,
As if he had never been gone.

By now I knew
The newness of his heartbeat...
The novelty of breathing...

It was then I saw.
It was then I felt
His body held tightly in my grip, no longer frail.

I felt his warmth.
The heat, an aura of life,
Brushed against my chest and I grasped the body all the more firmly.

We shared the same air for a moment.
Selfishly stealing it into our lungs,
I was so frightened of exhaling.

He'd conquered that monster
A long time ago,
But he held me all the tighter.

I felt the pressure of his embrace...
We must have stood there for hours...
Or a few precious moments, hoarded.

I don't remember him ever leaving.
We stood like statues in that haunted house
Until the rain of nothingness soaked us to the bone.

I don't remember him leaving.
We merged into ghosts and floated together
Until the wind of forgetfulness finally blew us to other shores.

I don't remember him leaving
We dissolved into baptismal waters meant for saints
Until the Sun scorched us dry.

I never knew he was gone.