Forward into the Past

YESTERDAY, I VISITED my usual drugstore in Mission Hills to buy a pint of my favorite ice cream. The young girl at the checkout was new and looked at it quizzically.

“$3.88 . . . Cherries and chocolate chunks? Is this good?

“Yeah, it’s great. The best.“

“Cherry Garcia? Funny name.“

“Well, it’s a pun, sort of. You see, there was this singer back in the ’60s named Jerry. . .”

THEN IT HIT ME. I’m getting old. No, not Mike Wallace or Montgomery Burns old, but I’m now in my 40s, and that’s not considered young. I’m aware 43 is the new 311⁄2, but lately I’ve noticed I’m simply older than many other humans with whom I come in contact——and nearly all animals. My frame of reference goes back too far for a lot of people, and I just don’t seem to have the energy to explain anymore. In addition, there’s been a progression of small changes in my life that’ve made me aware I’m not as young as I once thought. Primarily, my interests and habits have slowly evolved. From hard rock, I’ve gravitated to talk radio. With extreme reluctance, I made the switch from records to CDs years ago. Now, even their future is uncertain. I just can‘t change music formats again without a court order. I still look forward to the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue, but I find myself reading more about weed killers, cordless drills and fish oil. After diligent research, I now eat the highest fiber cereal legally available, which fortunately has an exciting new pine mulch flavor. I forget names more than I used to, not excluding immediate family members. I drive more slowly. I nap. When did all this happen?

I‘m convinced I‘m gradually becoming one of those old guys Jerry Seinfeld used to talk about, always pining for the outrageous prices of the past when a house cost a quarter and a car was a nickel. When I was a boy, my grandfather used to tell me what life was like when he was young: “I once bought 9 gallons of gas for $1.”

“In America, Grandpa?” Am I now like him? I do remember when Hershey bars were 5 cents and The San Diego Union cost a dime. My memory‘s a little hazy, but I‘m sure I recall our neighbor purchasing a major household appliance for a cornflakes boxtop, some Green Stamps and an Enzo Hernandez rookie card.

It’s been documented by extensive scientific testing (in Hungary) that time goes by faster as you get older, along with its relative changes. I’ve seen the rise and fall of disco, wine coolers, innumerable dot-coms and sub-prime lending. I’ve witnessed the demise of countless airlines, typewriters, Bullock’s and the USSR. My dad’s old Buick was the size of a modest two-bedroom home; now we have tiny hybrids and Smart cars. When I recently informed my young nephews that I grew up using rotary telephones and survived without a TV remote control, they looked at me as if I had lived in a hollow tree and hunted wild dog for food.

At times, the normal irritations of life seem to bother me more than they did in previous years, especially when a huge mass of people is involved. Consequently, before attending a concert, Padres game or any other large event, I quickly perform my own hassle/benefit analysis, weighing traffic, costs, parking, crowds and road conditions against any potential enjoyment the experience might produce.

On other days, I actually become Andy Rooney. Last week I caught myself yelling, “Hey, you kids. Get off of my lawn! That’s creeping bent, you know.“ Well, I didn’t actually shout it, but I thought it really loudly. I might have imagined it, but I believe I heard the taller kid refer to me as “Old Man Peterson.”

I’m aware that my mood is only temporary. All hope is not lost by getting a little older; life is better in many ways. I can afford to travel more than when I was younger. I bank online and can Photoshop pictures from my digital camera. We’ve got TiVo, iPhones, LASIK, caller ID and self-stick stamps. I can view a Hitchcock movie whenever I‘m in the mood or buy a latte the size of a canned ham. There’s e-mail and whitening toothpaste and free ATMs and cars that can park themselves. But mostly, whenever I desire, I can enjoy high-butterfat, premium ice cream in a myriad of flavors.

“. . . AND HE PLAYED in this band called the Grateful Dead, and occasionally they’d be on Johnny Carson.”

“Johnny who?”

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