Sears & Roebuck Glamour Shot, circa the Jimmy Carter administration

I am a child of the 80’s. Like most children of the 80’s I am no longer a child. I say most and not all because I don’t count those children who sold their souls to the devil in order to remain a Toys-R-Us kid in perpetuity. Technically, I am now an “Adult”. Well, not technically, more like legally. But it still feels like technically.I remember being a younger Bill, a Billy if you will. You will? You’re very gracious. I’ve always admired that about you, as well as your fashion sense. You look great too.Have you lost weight?

I remember being a little boy and just wanting to be a grownup. That’s all. I would be the best grownup ever. I would have a beard, and drive a car, and drink highballs, and smoke Winston’s. When I wasn’t smoking Winston’s, I would keep them tucked in my shirtsleeve a la Dwayne F. Schneider from “One Day At A Time“. Chicks dig that. I would live in a palatial, finely furnished house with a big yard where I would light off firecrackers at all times of day/night. And I mean I would light firecrackers in my finely furnished house. Remember, I’m the adult here. My house, my rules.

When you’re a little kid, you just want to be a bigger kid. You’re 4, you want to be 5. When you get a little older it’s all about double digits. The big One-Oh. Ten year olds want to be thirteen and cool. Thirteen year olds want to be sixteen and get their driver’s license. When your sixteen you want to be eighteen and get confused everyday. You can do all kinds of shit at eighteen. You can vote, buy cigarettes or dip (if carrying a cup of your own spit around with you is your thing, you gross fuck.), you can attend R rated movies. Or accompany a minor to an R rated movie.You can adopt a baby, run for mayor, or join the military and put your life on the line for your country.

But you can’t drink alcohol. Insanity. So you spend the next three years of your life just waiting for twenty-fucking-one.  Oh the bars, and the parties, and the other parties, and the after-parties. That was fun….. But then what? See, nobody wants to be older than twenty-one. That’s it. No twenty-one year old is sitting around thinking, “I can’t wait to be forty, or at least thirty-nine”. They’re all to busy drinking their faces off and pretending they don’t have chlamydia. Well maybe not all of them. Some of them will admit to the chlamydia. But they’ll say it’s not contagious and they’re full of shit. It’s highly contagious. We all know this, right?

Sorry, got off track there. Anyway to make a long story even longer I’m saying just be happy where you’re at because the olds gonna come and the young’s gonna go before you realize it. And that kinda sucks.

Just to summarize:
#1- I can’t grow a great big bushy beard like little Billy fantasized. And I’m alright with that.
#2- I can drive so good.
#3- Highballs are fucking gross.
#4- I’ve been known to smoke Marlboro and on occasion have been known to sleeve pocket them Schneider style.
#5- Chicks don’t dig that.
#6- While not palatial, my house is well-appointed with a very big yard.
#7- My wife would fuck my shit up if I lit off firecrackers in the house at anytime of day/night. She calls it the 24 hour rule. Hey, her house, her rules.

One response »

  1. Smaktakula says:

    I feel your pain–sorta. I can grow an awesome busy beard, but a decent-looking mustache will forever be denied me.

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