On the dangerous attraction of being codgery
Negative Derb is at it again. This is the post in which I try to buck up my recently diminished optimism for the future of Western Civ. It's no secret that I've fallen into something of a funk lately.
John Derbyshire despairs thusly:
The best joke I heard as we were returning stateside from Iraq came from 22 year old Greg, who planned to immediately join the VFW, his desert-tan not even faded, drink beer and whiskey sours, and complain loudly (cue comical old man voice) about how, "These kids today don't understand what war is!"
Derb? Of the half dozen married couples in their late twenties and early thirties that I call my circle of friends, we have multiple veterans, handimen, knitters, homemakers, door hangers, amatuer wood workers, pool installers, deck builders and gardeners. To the best of my knowledge, not one hires anyone for their lawn work. While it's true that most sit in front of a computer for their day jobs, it's equally true that we still enjoy working with our hands. That particular satifaction is not lost on us, you old coot.
I cheer every time I accumulate another gray hair. It's a kind of counter, ticking off the days until I'm allowed by society to hold forth my opinions without regard to reality. I'll scream at the neighborgood kids, "Now get off my lawn! Go back to yer Play Station 5000s what with their fancy-pants hologram displays! Why, in my day all we had was Frogger, ya bunch of shiftless whippersnappers!"
It's gonna be sweet.
John Derbyshire despairs thusly:
My neighbor was a keen gardener, too, and also a war veteran. There was nothing much unusual in 1955 about an ordinary working man of little education knowing the arts of soldiering, gardening, butchering, and cabinet-making. I suppose this man’s grandchildren occupy themselves with watching TV, day trading on their computers, and working out their income taxes. I suppose my kids will do likewise. Perhaps they will be happy, but it looks to me like lotus eating — a flight from humanity, from the basics of human existence.
The best joke I heard as we were returning stateside from Iraq came from 22 year old Greg, who planned to immediately join the VFW, his desert-tan not even faded, drink beer and whiskey sours, and complain loudly (cue comical old man voice) about how, "These kids today don't understand what war is!"
Derb? Of the half dozen married couples in their late twenties and early thirties that I call my circle of friends, we have multiple veterans, handimen, knitters, homemakers, door hangers, amatuer wood workers, pool installers, deck builders and gardeners. To the best of my knowledge, not one hires anyone for their lawn work. While it's true that most sit in front of a computer for their day jobs, it's equally true that we still enjoy working with our hands. That particular satifaction is not lost on us, you old coot.
I cheer every time I accumulate another gray hair. It's a kind of counter, ticking off the days until I'm allowed by society to hold forth my opinions without regard to reality. I'll scream at the neighborgood kids, "Now get off my lawn! Go back to yer Play Station 5000s what with their fancy-pants hologram displays! Why, in my day all we had was Frogger, ya bunch of shiftless whippersnappers!"
It's gonna be sweet.