Jud asks, appropriately, “what happened to the cheery Chris?”

Well, Jud, I’ve got a job that I hate but can’t quit. In my second job, I’m spending my weekends busting my ass to get lectures done that my undergraduates yawn through. I’ve got a sick kid and sick partner and have been cleaning up far too much effluvia this week. I’ve got an ache in my back and I’m starting to feel a bit under the weather myself. While working on my latest lecture about inherited diseases, I’ve discovered that I almost definitely have one or more of them.

And I got a rash so bad on my ass, I can’t even sit down.*

Maybe I’m just reaching that age at which the transition between virile young buck and grumpy old man begins. There have been a few incidents this week that lead me to believe that I may start yelling at the neighborhood kids to get off of my lawn any moment now. Actually, what’s that little brat doing out there in my garden…

As the radio at work burst forth with something that sounded more like a ring tone than what I would consider a song, I began bemoaning the lack of anything decent on the radio to my office mate. She immediately pounced, declaring this as evidence of my ‘grumpy old man”-hood. That I just didn’t ‘get’ modern pop. All my protestations that it had nothing to do with age, but with the quality of the music on the radio were met with derisive snorts and impressions of a hunched old man walking around with a cane. I explained that I’m quite ‘with-it’, that I’m down with cool music, but to every defense of my coolness she came up with another comment about my advancing years.

Did I mention that one of the only things I like about my writing job is my coworkers? Scratch that.

I do have some evidence, despite what my work colleagues may tell you, that I’m down with the kids. This weekend is the daughter of Arizaphale’s 14th birthday dinner. We’ve been invited because the BA, as she’s known, recognizes just how hip I am. She has remarkably good taste in music for one so young, so I thought I’d pick up a couple of CDs for her from my local independent record shop. (Two strikes against me, I know – CDs and record shops.) I chose a couple of older albums that I thought she might like – R.E.M.’s “New Adventures in Hi Fi”, which I think is that band’s best post-IRS offering, and Radiohead’s “OK Computer”. As I was checking out, I had a glance at the release dates of the albums – 1996 and ‘97 respectively. The BA would have been in nappies when I was discovering these albums. She would have been learning to toddle about as I singing along to ‘Karma Police’ and ‘The Wake-up Bomb’. In the BA’s eyes, this stuff is classic rock.

It’s not just music I’m struggling with, this new fangled technology is giving me trouble as well. Rassles’ tale of an  experience at the telephone store reminded me of a recent struggle I had with some fancy telephonic equipment.

I got a new mobile phone recently and, against my better judgment, went for the latest posh, whiz-bang model. Touch screen, doo dads galore, the kind of phone that will pretty much do everything for you short of cooking you dinner and tucking you into bed at night.

I don’t know how to use it. I’ve done everything, even resorting to that very un-manly activity of reading the instructions. But I still struggle to even answer the damn thing, nevermind sending a text message.

The scene: my lecture last Friday. Maybe it was some kind of karmic response to the speech I gave at the beginning of class berating my students for being too lazy to take notes. Maybe it’s because I actually used the words ‘back in my day…”

Whatever the reason, almost as soon as I started my lecture my pocket started tinkling and tittering with the most godawful digital ‘music’. I was astute enough to identify the phone as the source of the noise, but completely powerless to do anything about it.

There was a chorus of giggles as I haplessly tapped and poked at the damn thing.

Finally, one of my female students piped up:

“Chris, is that a Samsung XLHG-72293-Toucho-Mucho-Grasso?” (Yes, they call me Chris rather than Dr. – I get no respect.)

“Uh,” looking frantically for make and model of phone, “could be.”

“Do you want me to fix it for you?”

Gratefully, I passed it along to my student who restored blessed quiet with a couple of taps.

“Do you want me to turn it to silent?”

“Uh. Maybe not, I don’t know if I could, um, ‘unsilent’ it.”

To which my student rolled her eyes and handed my phone back.

These kids today have no respect for their lecturers. Back in my day we treated university lecturers with equal parts awe and fear. These days, a casual disdain.

Bastard kids.

————————————

* Name that film.

Musical collective Kicksville have been releasing a series of digital-only singles available for purchase from Ropeadope Digital. The singles, compiled as “Season 1″ and “Season 2″ include Kicksville originals as well as covers of The Police, Willie Dixon, and Talking Heads. This track, appropriate to today’s post, features the voice of depression era poet John Beecher. Check out more from Kicksville at their website or Kicksville.

Image credits:

Get off of my lawn

Senile dementia

Little professor

 
icon for podpress  Kicksville "Old Man John" [1:13m]: Play Now | Play in Popup | Download

Popularity: 16% [?]