From me, tonight, on Twitter:
“There is an entire generation for which the term ‘LP’ means nothing. I am old.”
And then: “No, whippersnappers. ‘LP’ does not mean “Linkin Park.” I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT THAT IS. GET THE [REDACTED] OFF MY [REDACTED] LAWN”
And then: ”I will always call albums LPs. It’s in my WRETCHED, WITHERED GEEZERFIED DNA.”
And then: ”All of youth culture just sent a carbon-dating crew to my house. After a brisk analysis, I am apparently FIFTY THOUSAND YEARS OLD.”
And then: ”Don’t mind me. Me and my buddy OSTEOPOROSIS are sitting here on the porch swing, drinking Country Time and listening to the phonograph…”
And then: ”Good gravy, there’s nothing like gumming a Whitman’s Sampler until it finally melts in your toothless mouth. FLIP THAT LP, OSTEOPOROSIS!”
And then: ”Off to run over some white-earbud-wearing punks with my Hoveround. I’VE GOT YOUR MP3s RIGHT HERE”
At which point Buddy Brannan said: “When Melanie got her Hoveround the rep said that the echoing voices at the Grand Canyon were the old people going over the edge.”
To which I replied: “@bbrannan No. It’s the sound of YOUTH CULTURE GETTING SMASHED UNDER THE MIGHTY HOVEROUND’S WHEELS”
And then the mighty John Cmar said: “@jchutchins I’m sure you shouted SUCK MY OSTEOPOROTIC FEMUR-HEAD, BIEEYATCHESSSSSS!!! #mybodyisanelderlywonderland”
To which I replied: “@Cmaaarrr That’s EXACTLY what I said. The fountain of spittle was glorious, as I didn’t have my teeth in. #MyLiverSpotsTasteLikeAwesome”
To which he replied: “@jchutchins There’s nothing like gum-slurred froth-speech to put the young’uns in their place. #ifonlymyprostatedidntweighmedownso”
At which point I could not reply, as I was wheeze-laughing. For I am a geezer.
As you were.
–J.C.
I cannot be “as I was”, since I will be whacking your back with my rheumy hand to dislodge thick spittle.
Damn kids… we’ll show them!
Damn whippersnappers. My 6yo son was watching Scooby-Doo (original series on DVD) this afternoon, an episode in which Scooby and the gang were helping a rock musician menaced by someone dressed up as (apparently) the ghost of Gene Simmons. There was an enormous stack of “LP records” in one room at the haunted studio, to be delivered to “record stores” all over the country. I fled the area before he could ask me what a “record store” is.
I’m 28 and I still call CDs “albums.”