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I am now 35. As noted last year, this is still not half of 74, but it is one of those dreaded divisible-by-five ages. Still, I figured that I was in good shape and handling it well. And then I had a dream last night.
I'm sitting running my hands through my hair when I notice that I seem to have a particularly long hair. I start pulling it, and it just keeps getting longer. When I finally pluck it out, it turns out to be about 2.5 feet long and chalk-white. Then I wake up.
When I woke up, I was tired and cranky, and I really didn't remember my dream. When I finally had a couple of cups of coffee and remembered, it was like a slap on the forehead. Of course I felt weird. I'd turned 35 and no comets had screamed across the sky; the 144,000 elect had not been called bodily to heaven; I hadn't been spontaneously appointed good will ambassador to the newly discovered Kingdom of Asgard. I obviously needed to create my own weirdness to make this all work. So I went shopping for music.
We ended up at Borders, and I immediately suspected I'd made a mistake. Borders classifies Metallica, Rancid, and the Descendents as Pop, along with, you know, Hoobastank. (And yet, somehow, no one has burnt them to the ground and sprinkled salt and asbestos on the site to prevent them from perpetrating this perfidious display from rising ever again.) Despair began to creep back in. I frantically searched the racks for something inspiring, something to raise me from this dark mood. And there, in the "Listen to This" section, was Me First And the Gimme Gimmes' "Ruin Johhny's Bar Mitzvah."
Thank you, Punk Gods, for looking down on us with the sacrilegious humor that is your hallmark. Through your bountiful glory, I am made young again.
I'm sitting running my hands through my hair when I notice that I seem to have a particularly long hair. I start pulling it, and it just keeps getting longer. When I finally pluck it out, it turns out to be about 2.5 feet long and chalk-white. Then I wake up.
When I woke up, I was tired and cranky, and I really didn't remember my dream. When I finally had a couple of cups of coffee and remembered, it was like a slap on the forehead. Of course I felt weird. I'd turned 35 and no comets had screamed across the sky; the 144,000 elect had not been called bodily to heaven; I hadn't been spontaneously appointed good will ambassador to the newly discovered Kingdom of Asgard. I obviously needed to create my own weirdness to make this all work. So I went shopping for music.
We ended up at Borders, and I immediately suspected I'd made a mistake. Borders classifies Metallica, Rancid, and the Descendents as Pop, along with, you know, Hoobastank. (And yet, somehow, no one has burnt them to the ground and sprinkled salt and asbestos on the site to prevent them from perpetrating this perfidious display from rising ever again.) Despair began to creep back in. I frantically searched the racks for something inspiring, something to raise me from this dark mood. And there, in the "Listen to This" section, was Me First And the Gimme Gimmes' "Ruin Johhny's Bar Mitzvah."
Thank you, Punk Gods, for looking down on us with the sacrilegious humor that is your hallmark. Through your bountiful glory, I am made young again.
