I’m Getting Old.
I don’t have a problem with the fact I’m getting old, for the most part. Frankly, I’ve felt old and out of touch for years now, watching old movies, listening to old music. That’s been a huge part of my life for most of life, really. I remember an old homeless guy asked me for some change at the end of a freeway exit, and as he came close to my window to receive my gift of spare change, he heard my music, which I believe was Robert Johnson. When he realized what he heard, he said to me, “Man, you got an old soul!” To be honest, I loved hearing that, and I considered it a compliment. Still do.
Being out of touch with the modern world never really mattered to me, because, for the most part, modern music, movies and style are pretty ridiculous to me. Be that as it may, I don’t have the time nor the inclination to make myself look like I was born in the 30’s. I dress (somewhat) modern. At least, that’s what I thought.
The other night, I was working the door at The Fake Gallery. Next door, at The Ukrainian Cultural Center, there was a party. Odd, because I’ve never seen anything that ever had anything to do with Ukrainians or their culture at this spot. My people (the Mexicans) tend to be the only folks that rent out that joint for Quinceaneras. But this evening was different. It was a 15th anniversary party for Vice Magazine. I know very little of this publication, but it doesn’t matter, since this piece has nothing to do with the magazine per se.
All night, there were people lined up around the corner to get into this party. All of them kids born in the 80’s, when I was in high school. This, I’m kinda used to, really. I know I shouldn’t be where I am most of the time, feeling like the creepy old dude in the corner eyeing the young’ens, but a lot of comics are young, and I end up hanging out with a lot of them (well, the ones that aren’t assholes). I saw a comic I knew early in the evening, before things got really crowded on Melrose and Heliotrope, and as he explained to me about this party, he also explained that the “theme” of the party was a 90’s theme. That is, to dress like it was 1994. He stretched out his arms in a way that said, “See?” Frankly, he didn’t look that different to me. “You’re pants are still a little tight for the 90’s, dude,” I told him.
As the evening wore on, and I tried to keep these loud mouthed twentysomethings away from our door, I realized that all these kids looked like they were dressed in some sort of costume, with their band shirts from the 90’s, flannels, and other 90’s staples. And yet, they looked all wrong. As if they were making fun of it the way people my age would make fun of the 70’s. Then, I looked down at my own clothes: Vans, exceedingly baggy Dickies, shirt a little too billowy, a skateboard hat, and of course, flannel.
Holy shit! I’M dressed for this party, and I wasn’t even invited! I could walk into this party, and probably get complimented on the accuracy of my “outfit.” Unfortunately, this wasn’t an “outfit,” this is the way I dress. Everyday. And these kids were, effectively, making fun of it! When the fuck did I become Ralph Furley?
Fucking kids. What do they know? I can’t wait til they’re my age and they have to watch twentysomethings make fun of the way THEY dressed. And, let’s face it, there’s WAY more to make fun of, what with your stupid hair cuts, and retarded facial hair, and ball squashing girl pants, and t-shirts so worn out and tight that they might rip when it gets cold and your nipples get hard.
Get off my lawn!!
