I'm Getting Old

So, yes, earlier this month I had another birthday. Not necessarily the greatest thing in the world, but it sure as hell beats the alternative. (Had the usual -- German chocolate cake. Almost bought lemon cake mix and lemon frosting to shake things up, but tradition is a powerful force.) I'm not yet into old fogeydom, but I'm headed that direction. Here's how I know I'm getting old, based on what I remember:

I remember soda when it was made with real sugar. Yes, soda, not 'pop'. 'Pop' is what my joints now do when I get up in the morning.

I remember when canned beverages were steel, not aluminum, and had to be opened with a church-key. I also remember what a church-key is.

I remember candy bars that had real chocolate. Whatever's in most of them now is OK, but it sure as hell ain't the same.

I remember penny candy. It only cost a single Lincoln penny, and you got a decent amount.

Comic books were 20-cents, and you bought them at the drug store. Have you seen how much those friggin' things cost now?

I remember going around town collecting soda bottles and returning them to the store for the nickel deposit each. Then buying more soda and penny candy and comic books -- a vicious, wonderful cycle.

I remember Space Food Sticks, and Black Cherry and Root Beer Fizzies drink tablets, and candy cigarettes.

I remember when people smoked everywhere.

I remember Bell Telephone. I remember chunky wall phones with rotary dials and loud, jangly rings. Hell, I remember party lines, where you might lift the receiver to make a call and someone on the other side of town was on the line with their sister Gladys gossiping about what the other ladies were wearing at church last Sunday. The line "can you hear me now" really did mean "this crappy-sounding, horrendously expensive long-distance call is costing me a fortune, so you damn well better be hearing me!"

I remember black & white TV, which you couldn't really watch until the tubes inside the set had warmed up. "Remote control" meant you talked somebody else into getting up off their ass, walking to the TV, putting out their hand and turning the dial. Unless, of course, the cheap plastic thing had finally stripped, and you had to use a pair of pliers instead to change channels. If you wanted it louder you turned the volume knob -- and, no, it didn't go to 11.

I remember fewer channel choices than there were fingers on one hand. ABC, CBS, NBC and PBS. That was it. With signals pulled in from a crappy little antenna on the roof. And you only got cartoons on Saturdays from 6 AM until about noon, and 'Bullwinkle' on Sundays, which I would watch while hoping Mom would forget it was almost time for church so I wouldn't have to sit on those hard wooden pews for an hour, doing Catholic calisthenics and being bored out of my mind.

I remember when MTV used to play music videos.

I remember tuning in AM radio to listen to music. I also remember FM radio when it was AOR and the late-night DJs were audibly stoned.

I remember 45s and albums and record needles and scratches and double albums that seemed to hold monstrous power and opened up like the doors of a 747 hanger.

I remember reel-to-reel and 8-Track tapes and cassettes. I still have a cassette player, but use it even less than my old LaserDisc player, which I also still have.

I remember when headphones were the size of the cinnamon rolls Princess Leah wore in the original Star Wars movie.

I remember when VHS players first came out -- they were powered by coal and only slightly smaller than a Volkswagen Beetle. I exaggerate. A little.

I remember BetaMax -- the beginning of Sony's legendary greed and stupidity.

I remember pinball machines and video arcades.

I remember when computers were sold in kits you had to build and program yourself.

I remember when there wasn't an Internet.

I remember glow-in-the-dark and black light posters and bongs that were sold in public. Far out.

I remember dentistry without happy gas -- just nasty banana-flavored gunk they'd spray into your mouth, then a big damn needle with Novocaine. Then, after it was all over, the dentist gave you candy. A racket, even way back then.

I remember going out alone on Halloween, on foot, in the snow, to houses of people I didn't know, and receiving big candy bars and homemade treats and apples and popcorn balls made with Caro syrup and red dye #2 and never ever contemplating having it X-rayed for needles or razor blades or whatever. All we worried about was scary old houses and bigger kids stealing our candy. I doubt the words 'Trunk or Treat' had even been invented yet.

I remember when gasoline was less than a buck a gallon, and contained enough lead to block Gamma radiation.

I remember when cars were rolling mountains of metal, rubber and vinyl surrounded by bumpers of chromed steel that easily sat six adults, and miles-per-gallon might more likely refer to oil than gas.

I remember when seat belts were nuisance items you shoved in the crack between the seats to get them out of the way. I remember the plastic seat covers my uncle had in his Plymouth that could reach somewhere around 200-degrees Fahrenheit on a hot summer day. I remember when air bags were mainly found in politics.

I remember when Velcro was a rare and amazing item to behold, and zippers were large, chunky and held slightly less metal than your average Buick.

I remember watering the lawn by flooding it with ditch water, not sprinklers. And later that night going out with a flashlight to discover the lawn covered with fat night-crawlers that fought like 10-pound cutthroat trout to keep from being yanked out of the ground.

I remember high school floats of chicken-wire, napkins and spray-paint.

I remember Western Auto, Economy Cash, the Highway Store, Monkey Wards, the ice-cream counter at Scaggs, the old JC Penney and the Chief Theater. I remember carrying groceries and laundry back and forth from home to town because my mom didn't learn to drive until I was in junior high. I also remember, once we did get a car, driving it to school and parking it around the back so the Driver's Ed teacher wouldn't catch me while I was trying to get my driver's permit. 14-years old and allowed a driver's license -- what the hell were they thinking?

I remember the Panasonic clock radio I got from Grand Central for my birthday when I was 12. I remember it because I still have it. And even after replacing two power supplies, it still keeps nearly-perfect time.

I remember my first taste of beer. I would have been around 5 years old, and it was either Coors or Oly-burgers.

I remember the first time I got really drunk; attending a Catholic Youth Organization weekend in Boise. I drank copious amounts of cheap beer, bottles of TJ Swan Easy Nights and Southern Comfort. I was too sick and hung over the next day to attend the Sunday service and had the hiccups for three straight days afterward.

I remember the Friday ritual of tuna fish sandwiches with chopped sweet pickles on Wonder bread, a bottle of Coca-Cola, Clover Club potato chips and sitting on the linoleum floor in the living room to watch new episodes of The Wild Wild West. Heaven.

I remember building model cars and planes, and the smell of paint and modeling glue. I especially remember the lemon-scented kind -- apparently, they wanted kids to sniff the stuff back then.

I remember getting home from school during the week, just in time to watch re-runs of Star Trek. I also remember ordering in and building the model replicas of the Trek phaser, communicator and Tri-corder. Also the models of the Enterprise, Klingon warbird and Romulan bird of prey. I was nerd before nerd was kewl. Later, my friends and I would "battle" our models and light them on fire or blow them up with firecrackers. How I managed to avoid blowing myself up or burning down any major structures, I'll never know.

I remember cherry bombs and M-80s. I remember a friend and me building rifles out of wood and pipes and using them to shoot bottle rockets at each other. I remember playing dodge ball with darts (not lawn darts, thankfully) on the lawn and getting tagged by one right in the leg. Better than one in the eye, I suppose. Ah, the indestructibility of youth...

I remember my red Buzz Bike, and racing like a hell-demon over gravel roads and hills and jumps, in summer and winter. I beat that poor thing like a rented mule. I remember the Sinclair gas station in town, and the crochety old guy who owned it. He wore what appeared to be the same pair of overalls every day (closed on Sundays, of course) and a cap like you see in those old ads with the Texaco Man, and he always came out to pump your gas and check the oil. Though a curmudgeon through and through, he would always take the time to repair the tube in a kid's bike tire if it went flat, and he did it for free. See how that works next time you're at the corner Maverick convenience store.

I remember the ozone-smell of electric race-track cars. Then the neighbor kid would squirt lighter fluid on the track and race the cars through the flames. We weren't really arsonists-in-training, even though it may read that way...

I remember leather-tooling kits got old really fast. I remember wood-burning kits were fun, especially when you used them on the styrofoam the wood burning kit came packed in. Fun, yes, until later that night when my friend and I began puking simultaneously and were sent to the hospital, only to discover we'd poisoned ourself by breathing in the toxic fumes from the melting styrofoam. But, hey, at least we didn't set it on fire.

I remember taking apart pretty much every mechanical toy I ever owned to see how it worked. Little battery-powered electric motors were fascinating. There was the time when I was 5 or 6 and took the wires from the motor of a little fire truck and plugged them directly into an electrical socket. I still didn't know what AC or DC meant, but I instantly grasped the basic difference. How children manage to survive childhood is still a mystery to me.

I remember really ugly nylon dress shirts with big, wide collars and retina-burning colors, and polyester suits. Yeah, Sunday finest.

I remember disco. I don't hate remembering it, but I don't really miss it. "Play That Funky Music, White Boy" was pretty good, though.

I remember being 17 years old and kissing a really cute girl I met at an out-of-town dance. It just so happens that, next month, on St. Patrick's Day, March 17th, 2010, that same girl and I will share our 30th anniversary kiss. Yeah, I suppose getting old ain't so bad -- it just depends on who you get old with, and remembering the good things. And German chocolate cake.