CARLTON FLETCHER: ‘Old’ ain’t nothing but a bigger number

You’re too old to Kid, you’re too soft to Rock.

— Kid Rock

When some of the lovely folks who are regular contributors to this newspaper’s Squawkbox feature get tired of using the trite “left-wing/liberal/Socialist/Communist/Democrat” terms of endearment in response to something I’ve written that goes against their hard-core “conservative” dogma — sorry, folks, despite ole Rush’s assurances, I’m none of those — they seek other words to get my goat.

Some of the most common are “out of touch,” “delusional” and that hit-‘em-where-it-hurts standby, “old.”

And, you know what? I’m good with all of them.

I am out of touch when it comes to a belief system based on the dictates of some cockamamie politician, especially one whose partisanship does not allow for any original thought. And I am delusional in that I keep thinking that, at some point, when the wheels are about to come off of this country — a distinct possibility — common sense will somehow re-establish itself and these worthless elected officials will return to the concept of “my country, right or wrong,” not “my party, who’s handing out the money this week?”

Oh, and the old thing. Hell, I am.

I’ve got some years on me, and I wear each of them like a badge of honor. I’ve lived through some interesting times, and I’ve come close enough to that permanent exit that awaits us all to appreciate each one of these new days that I’ve been granted.

It’s interesting what our culture now does with the concept of “old.” Somehow, it’s become a dirty word, not revered as it once was, and still is in some cultures. And because age is now seen as something bad, you see teetering-on-the-edge-of-knowing-better women wearing clothing that their grandchildren would be embarrassed to be seen in. And you see men getting dye jobs and hair plugs in an effort to fool the hipper younger folks into thinking that they’re really not all that old.

(Note to these folks: You’re not fooling anybody.)

In his song “Levon,” Sir Elton John sings, “Levon wears his war wounds like a crown.” That should be our starting-off point as we manage to stack the years into decades. Why try and hide the things that give us character, make us who we are? Let ‘em shine, baby.

But all you Gen X, Y and Z bozos who castigate anyone above the age of 30 who might mention that they like something — music, style, triple-double lattes, cellphones, vehicles … that you claim are of your generation … none of which are, except maybe the cellphones — you need to realize that there are those of us out here who like what we like, even if it does bleed into your “territory.” And we care little that you feel intruded-upon by our pursuits.

(Personal aside: When I was my “disconnected” self at Irwin County High School, I was accused of “trying to be black” because a lot of my favorite music was the R&B/Motown songs of that era, and in addition to having my own collection of albums by the artists who made this music, I listened to Albany’s WJIZ a lot. Flash forward to the ’90s, when hip-hop supplanted rock as the popular music of the day, and when I admitted that I liked and bought music by artists like Public Enemy, Run DMC, Dr. Dre, Snoop Dogg and Eminem, I was again trying to act cool, young and black. Will it go ‘round in circles?)

I don’t know how others of my generation feel, but despite the tell-tale signs of time passage, I still think the way I did when I was a young man. I don’t, however, feel in any way that I have a kinship with any generation other than my own. Nor do I want one.

Let’s be honest, there hasn’t been a generation before or after ours that was anywhere near as cool. So why would any of us who’ve passed that magical age that we used to think was ancient want in any way to try and fool anyone into thinking we’re anything but what we are? And, oh, if some anonymous dweeb tries to put you in your place by calling you old, just give him a big grin and say, “Thanks, dude.” And if you’re feeling mean, clue him in that he’s still got to live through the stuff you’ve already endured just to get where you are.

Email Carlton Fletcher at [email protected]. Follow him on Twitter @ABF_Fletcher.