Monday, October 31, 2011

Lately I've found myself reflecting on what it was like to be 16, using 1970 as my yard stick with the combination of innocence, fear, and wonder that went with it.

The Vietnam War was in full swing, Neil Armstrong, Michael Collins and Buzz Aldrin had just been there and done that, big time, being our first official space tourists with ground time, and to my young eyes hippies were everywhere, my hair was too short, I'd just been on my first surf trip, camping with 13 mates, 11 of whom were named Mick (true) and the beginning of the ruin of my life had begun.

Just entering the final two years of high school, pissed off I was spending most of every weekend lugging bricks from the front of the house to the back to help the builders put an extra bedroom on the back of the house, watching the wind just in case it got over 30 knots and the crap waves that blew up on Port Phillip Bay let me get a splash (imagine the Great Lakes wind slop and divide it by 3), and hoping some girl, any girl, would look sideways at me, and that paints a fair picture of my time in the manhood starting blocks.

Add to that pimples, smelly feet, too much action in the underpants department, as in all dressed up and nowhere to go... Well it's about as much fun as sticking your head up an elephant's backside and trying to recite the soliloquy from Hamlet.

Fast forward forty two years and I am staring at two me's, one a Mini but catching up fast, and a Maxi, but stronger, faster, with more lip and more attitude, better looking and they have got me stumped.

The world has moved so much, the internet and the black spaces it offers have informed too much, and any challenge I mount to their all conquering world view is met with derision, as I lived in the stone age, and never did anything anyway.

True in a way. Got drunk at sixteen more than a few times, then decided it was for the birds and didn't touch the stuff again, until introduced to the glories of English beer at 24. Never smoked anything either, ever. So yep, boring young fart, now a boring old fart but I loved and still love my watery delights, living in my head, trying to love my family, re-inventing or perhaps de-inventing my working life and that is more than enough for me.

Where is this going? Not sure, just venting a little as working out how to guide and protect is becoming an increasingly tough gig.

One day I might write a book about it. For now I'll buy another box of band aids for my noggin. Headbutting the door to make a point has its drawbacks.


Tiny but fun Winki and Bells. Solace for a Sore Head on Saturday

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

they'll be in their thirties before you know it Mick