I was reflecting tonight on how my body has been falling apart, and I realized something: I’m getting old.
I’m so old that “New” Coke is so not new anymore that I know people who are so young that they don’t even remember the stuff or how it brought this country to its soft-drink-swilling knees back in the 80s to the sound of Max Headroom t-t-t-talking in the background on the 13–inch CRT Sony Trinitron television next to the Apple IIe while Bill Cosby pushed Jello Pudding Pops on regular old non-sattelite broadcast radio. B.A. Baracus was “pitying foo’s” and Buck Rogers was trying to hide his constant Wilma Dearing-inspired painted-on vinyl bodysuit erection. It was a different era.
And these people… these people who don’t know the dangers of “New” Coke… are old enough to vote.
That’s how old I am.
Shall I part my hair behind? / Do I dare eat a peach? / I shall wear white flannel trousers / And walk upon the beach
Crap.
So, take / These broken wings / And learn to fly again…