Home at last. Home means hanging out with Michele, and hanging out with Michele means complaining to her about how old we are getting. “Do you realize,” I said, “that there are freshmen in high school now who were born in nineteen ninety-two?”
Those of you inclined to lust after the younger generation (you know who you are) should pause and take note. These children believe “Ray of Light” was Madonna’s best album. The only Prince they know is that lovable scamp William or the rebellious young Harry. Metallica is a shade of nail polish. To these fragile flowers of the schoolyard Michael Jackson is just another creepy old white guy from Santa Barbara.
These kids read the first Harry Potter books at the correct age to read them. They have no idea why pricey designers make clothes that look like they came from thrift stores. Not one of them can spell out “you are,” “laugh out loud” or “please.”
Perhaps most distressing is the thought that had the Moms not gently talked me out of sleeping with a certain Goth in high school, I could conceivably have given birth to one of these children. Even now we could be having screaming arguments about her wardrobe. (Me: Do you really have to wear pants that show your entire damn thong? Why don’t I just buy you some assless chaps, would that make you happy? Oh hell. Just get in the car.)
My only comfort is the thought that perhaps some of my older-than-me friends will read this and be disgusted. Do you realize, they will say, that this kid was born in nineteen seventy-nine? Music does not begin with Madonna, you know. Why, when I was her age…
Whatever, grandpa. If you’ll excuse me, my ten-year reunion is coming up; I really don’t have time to stand around chatting with you.