Growing old before your time takes fun out of life

Brent Hopkins Hopkins misses the good ol’ days.
Use that newfangled e-mail system to contact him at [email protected].

I’ve come to an extremely disturbing revelation. In spite
of my valiant attempts to stay cool, hip, young and in touch,
I’ve lost it. I’m becoming an old man.

Healthwise, I’m still pretty fine. This isn’t some
weird Star Trek stuff, where my body ages at a rapid rate and I get
old and infirm at the age of 22. No, my problem is more mental in
nature.

I noticed it a few weeks ago while roaming the freeways.
Flipping through my stereo presets, I settled on KROQ, which has
been a mainstay of my radio since moving here as a freshman. For
four years now, it’s been my default, the station I could
always return to and know that there’d be some tunes there
that I could live with. Listening to Jed the Fish and Richard Blade
made me feel cool and alternative and stuff, like all good
rebellious young teens should.

In this particular moment, however, KROQ failed me. As is
frequently the case now, it was playing a song from that
indistinguishable string of Limp Bizkit clones, and my hand
immediately shot to the scan button. Thinking self-righteously
“I’m not going to listen to this high-school crap!
That’s just a bunch of noise!” I changed the station to
NPR and settled on some infectious fiddle music.

Man, now I was set! No more of that misplaced teen rage, no more
lame guitar playing, no stupid screaming about hot dog-flavored
water. I was sitting on top of the world, tapping my toes and
humming along to … bluegrass music.

The implications didn’t hit me for three or four songs,
but when they did, I quickly changed the station and tried not to
hang my head in shame. That sad point in my life has come, where I
don’t get what the kids are listening to any more, and have
put aside being cool in favor of being educated.

This sucks.

It bears pointing out that Limp Bizkit really is a god-awful
band, one that should have been sent back to its Florida tattoo
parlor long ago. I’m not going to apologize for not liking
what really is little more than yelling over a wash of
poorly-played guitar. As far as I’m concerned, Limp Bizkit
and its embarrassingly large wave of followers should be banished
to a faraway isle where they can work out their pent-up aggression
and learn to play their instruments.

And on the other hand, bluegrass isn’t terrible music.
Sure, it’s a little embarrassing to listen to, and it really
brings out the redneck in you, but there’s some decent tunes
to be found. It could be worse ““ I could be listening to
smooth jazz, easy listening or any of the other musical pablum that
most people seem to enjoy once they hit the age of 40.

But the fact of the matter is, I’ve given up the pretense
of even trying to understand what’s cool and current. Rather
than taking the time to figure out what’s going on with
alternative music, I’ve decided that my tastes are more
evolved and sophisticated than what most people are listening
to.

This is how old people act, permanently stuck in a zone from
their early youth, never realizing that they’re just hopeless
fossils from another era. But they have time on their side ““
you can get away with that when you’re 40. I’m barely
old enough to get into the House of Blues, and I’m already
stuck in the past.

The scary thing is that it’s spreading, too. While
surveying the array of sweets in the company lunchroom the other
day, I actually bought a bran muffin because it was healthier than
the danishes and candy bars that I’d normally indulge in.
You’re not supposed to be worrying about your digestive
health when you’re 21, you’re supposed to be screwing
up your body and worrying about it later on.

To make matters worse, I actually enjoyed the muffin.

The road I’ve started down is not a pretty one. It’s
only a matter of time before I start buying wrinkle-free clothes
and generic toothpaste, proud of my practical nature and excited
about saving eight cents by being frugal. Then I’ll probably
start watching C-SPAN and voting Republican, at which point I might
as well shoot myself, ’cause there’s no chance at ever
being cool once you’ve slipped that far.

I’m not writing this to elicit your pity ““ I’m
writing it to save your souls. Maybe a couple of people will read
this and give up talk radio and health food and go back to their
wild and crazy ways. I certainly hope so … You’ve got your
whole life to be boring and responsible, so you might as well enjoy
your youth while you’ve still got it.

Me, I’m a lost cause. I guess I’m just destined to
be old before my time, so I’m going to go play my dixieland
albums and eat my five daily servings of fruit now. For the rest of
you, though, go out be young and stay away from bran.

Hopkins misses the good ol’ days. Use that newfangled
e-mail system to contact him at [email protected].