I have my share of phobias and fears ... caves, vegetarian ideals, rum shortages. But here lately I have come to fear my own future. I continually see signs pointing to my becoming an old fogie, a grouchy old man all to eager to shout "HEY, you kids stay off my lawn!"
I fear becoming such a man. Yet my ability to resist this fogie-ism is eroding faster than the price of British Petroleum stock.
I suppose y'all want examples.
Music --- I still love a good tune, but sometime in the last few years I decided it was more trouble to keep up that it was worth. Justin Bieber? Never say Never may sound like good advice, but I'll never understand why anyone wants that much damn hair hanging in their eyes. And other acts everyone is all GAGA over? At least Boy George was up front with his cross dressing when he posed as a LADY.
Tattoos --- I used to think I'd get one whenever I finally published my first novel, but most likely that will never happen. (The tattoo that is, I'm too damn stubborn to give up on my dreams of being a novelist.) I now wonder what the hell the purpose of a tattoo even is. If it's simply to shock my fellow man or to make people look at me, I might as well walk around with my pants unzipped. The boys could probably use some air and it would be just as easy to get angry and yell quit staring I am not a freak for that as it would to pay loads of money and get repeatedly stabbed by a needle. And if it's to artistically showcase the things that mean the most to me then I fear most would misinterpret my ink. Just this weekend I encountered a man with a fairy tattooed on his right calf and I feel certain that tatt meant something different to him than it did to me. Like wise with the dude at the pool that had a tramp stamp. I simply do not understand why any man would want the Dallas Cowboy Star permanently etched just above the crack of his ass.
Oh there are other signs ... I can't walk across my lawn anymore without bending to pull at least a weed or two. Only a few weeks back I called the city to complain about the perpetual garage sale down the street from my house. And perhaps the biggest sign that fogie-ism is present in my soul ... More than once I've started to write an editorial in response to an article in my local newspaper.
God help the future kids of my neighborhood.