A few days ago my aunt, a college professor, posted to Facebook that her students do not know who Eric Clapton is. Eric Clapton!! This piece of news is unfathomable to me. I remember the day early in high school that I broke a window in my mom's garage door while hitting tennis balls against it. What was playing on my boombox? My third-ever CD purchased--after 10,000 Maniacs (yay!) and Candlebox (...yak)--Clapton Unplugged. Looking back at that moment, I think it's funny that I didn't realize my own ability to break windows with tennis balls. I also wonder about my neighbors having to endure my blaring driveway music, although who can imagine someone yelling "Turn that garbage down!" about San Francisco Bay Blues. I can, actually. Those were some cranky-ass neighbors.
But back to my original point. Or not point, really, but incoherent rant. What the crap? How do these whippersnappers not know who Eric Clapton is? These were children born in, what, 1990 to 1994? We're not talking about Twiggy or Studio 54, here. Eric Freaking Clapton is one of those people you should just KNOW. I blame their parents, I suppose. And this is the moment where I realize I am going to be one of those parents who some day will pin down my daughters and force them to listen to Crossroads. But so be it. There are some things that must be passed down to future generations, and effing Cream is one of them, okay people? Ain't nobody got time for that shit.
The intangible moment is upon me, in which I realize I no longer fit in with youth but don't fully see myself in my parents' shoes. What do you call this stage of life? Adulthood? Not full-blown disillusionment, surely. This is not a Dickens novel, after all, but still! I must admit there is a twinge of "these kids today and their iPhones" when I watch a sullen hobbledehoy taking my order or bagging my groceries. I'll be among these young'ns soon enough when I go back home to work at my old camp for a month this summer, which I'm doing since Vivi will be attending for her first time. That experience promises to be interesting, I'll say that much!
In honor of the mixing of the ages that is to come, let's ponder some of the ways I can shock them with my wisdom and experience, shall we? (I borrowed inspiration for this part from an oldie by Sub'n Matron, who borrowed her inspiration from Finslippy. My life is a derivative Woody Allen film, hardee har.)
For starters, I had a record player until high school. My favorite record was the Dirty Dancing soundtrack; I must have played it 1,000 times. I remember an exciting morning that an LP came in our Sunday paper from McDonald's, and I played the menu song a million times in a row that day... "I'd like a Big Mac, McBLT, a Quarter Pounder with some cheese..."
I remember when we used to rent a VCR from Turtles, a local movie store. When I was eleven years old, I saved up all my babysitting money to buy a duffel bag with the Atlanta Olympic rings on it. This was after I watched the announcement that the Olympics were coming to Atlanta on our little black & white TV in the kitchen that had rabbit ears and two dials. Back then I would get up to turn the channel back and forth from 17 (back when TBS was only in Atlanta) to 4, which had my favorite Saturday morning shows, Muppet Babies and Pee-Wee's Playhouse.
|Early college, circa 1999? Love and the pencil-thin eyebrows.|
What do you remember about the days of yore?