Age shall not weary them
A 62 year old man from northern NSW was recently arrested for growing a cannabis crop with an estimated street value of $3 million.
It is not the growing of cannabis in this story which caught my eye, but more that our friendly stoner is old enough to be my Dad.
What is happening to the world when someone who should be wearing hush puppies and writing letters to the editors to fill their days, is instead reaching for the bucket bong and co-opting mates into doing a mars bar run at 3am?
Not that I’m suggesting that drugs are the sole domain of the young and hapless, just that when someone who qualifies for discount public transport is an integral component in maintaining the market share of BBQ shapes and ice cream that something is amiss.
I don’t want to appear ageist – but the reality is I guess I am as it’s not only my pot-head pop that has disconcerted me, but more, that a lovely if not misguided 22 year old lad recently hit on me.
Under normal circumstances, this would be an enormous ego boost to most 36 year olds. To me, my initial reaction was “I own wine older than you”.
Followed closely by “If this was the Edwardian era, I would legitimately be old enough to be your mother.” Ego boost aside, when that pops into your head, it’s reasonable to assume no amount of mental colour and movement is going to distract you from the logical progression to an internal monologue pondering Zimmer frames and incontinence pads.
How has all this come about? When did I become so age focussed?
Possibly in the entry gates to Homebake where I dutifully pulled out my photo ID to show the security guard, who waved me past saying “it’s fine, really” but then turned away a friend who is 2 years older than me.
Or was it when I relayed to a friend that my 22-year old paramour had said I was “cooler than Mr T” and she spitefully told me that he wouldn’t know who Mr T was because of his age, so he was clearly lying.
So, what does this mean? Am I now to hang up my Triple J shirt and move the dial to Radio National? Is my street credibility for knowing all the lyrics to the White Stripes tarnished due to also having some Phil Collins in my CD collection?
And most importantly do I need to stop writing to this blog and start writing letters to the editor about the lack of public toilets and how good we had it back in the day?
It is not the growing of cannabis in this story which caught my eye, but more that our friendly stoner is old enough to be my Dad.
What is happening to the world when someone who should be wearing hush puppies and writing letters to the editors to fill their days, is instead reaching for the bucket bong and co-opting mates into doing a mars bar run at 3am?
Not that I’m suggesting that drugs are the sole domain of the young and hapless, just that when someone who qualifies for discount public transport is an integral component in maintaining the market share of BBQ shapes and ice cream that something is amiss.
I don’t want to appear ageist – but the reality is I guess I am as it’s not only my pot-head pop that has disconcerted me, but more, that a lovely if not misguided 22 year old lad recently hit on me.
Under normal circumstances, this would be an enormous ego boost to most 36 year olds. To me, my initial reaction was “I own wine older than you”.
Followed closely by “If this was the Edwardian era, I would legitimately be old enough to be your mother.” Ego boost aside, when that pops into your head, it’s reasonable to assume no amount of mental colour and movement is going to distract you from the logical progression to an internal monologue pondering Zimmer frames and incontinence pads.
How has all this come about? When did I become so age focussed?
Possibly in the entry gates to Homebake where I dutifully pulled out my photo ID to show the security guard, who waved me past saying “it’s fine, really” but then turned away a friend who is 2 years older than me.
View of Homebake from Ferris Wheel
Or was it when I relayed to a friend that my 22-year old paramour had said I was “cooler than Mr T” and she spitefully told me that he wouldn’t know who Mr T was because of his age, so he was clearly lying.
So, what does this mean? Am I now to hang up my Triple J shirt and move the dial to Radio National? Is my street credibility for knowing all the lyrics to the White Stripes tarnished due to also having some Phil Collins in my CD collection?
And most importantly do I need to stop writing to this blog and start writing letters to the editor about the lack of public toilets and how good we had it back in the day?
