Talkin’ ’bout my generation.
her perspective
By Liz Biggs
(Play The Who’s hit loudly while reading this. It will seem much cooler that way.)
I saw The Who when I was 19 — drove all the way from Mobile to the Tangerine Bowl in Orlando. It was their Farewell Tour, and I wanted to hear 5’-6” Roger Daltrey’s booming voice fill the stadium and see Pete Townshend’s bleeding hands smash his guitar. The Clash opened for them all summer, but that train was in vain — the Clash skipped the Florida station. The B-52s subbed as the opening band and they bombed. Being a big fan of all the cool bands coming out of Athens, Georgia, in the ’80s, I was ready to get down, down to “Rock Lobster.” Sadly, no “Rock Lobster” was served.
“Presented by Schlitz, on November 27, 1982, opening acts the B-52s and Joan Jett were assaulted by half-full cups and shoes and booed off the stage early in their sets. Very tough crowd!” I Googled and found this quote on concertarchives.org because, at my age, I can’t be trusted to remember things accurately. I thought those old, crusty Who fans next to me were throwing Schlitz cans at Fred and Kate, but no. Gotta fact-check everything these days. Even the setlist is on that website — they opened with “My Generation,” and played my favorites, “Behind Blue Eyes” and “Love Reign O’er Me.”
Well, now I’m old, but I’m not crusty. I would never throw my shoes at an opening band; I need them for arch support. Plantar fasciitis is no joke. And yes, my GNO friend group discussed our recent colonoscopy experiences when we were out grooving at the Yard Lights’ last gig, but it was all in fun. We are fans of the new poop-in-the-box method. However, one of my dear friends mixed up the return label, and her poop was delivered back to her doorstep a few days after she mailed it. That stinks. We all agreed that we like whatever drug they give us during a colonoscopy because we value a good nap these days. With snoring husbands and the menopause, good sleep is hard to come by.
Remember when Grandpa would tell you he had to walk miles in the snow to get to school? Old people like to tell you how hard they had it back in their day. Well, I never had to walk in the snow, but unbeknownst to me, I had mono and a collapsed lung when I left Mobile for that Who concert. I still managed to have a pretty okay time — I just thought I had a really bad chest cold or the flu, so I waited until after exams to go to a doctor. I was brought up in the suck-it-up-buttercup generation, especially being one out of seven kids. We didn’t talk about our aches and pains. Ha, but now when I lunch with my besties, we talk about cholesterol, statins, diverticulitis and arthritis. Old people love to talk about their ailments. We also love to talk about grandbaby names. Charli for a girl is very popular these days. Some are even spelling it Charlee. I’m kind of over the trend of names ending in ee, but I like my grand-dog’s name — Theo.
My high school state championship basketball teammates recently gathered at our old stomping ground, Jerry’s Drive-In, with our beloved coach. He is one generation older than us, and he doesn’t text — you have to call him on his landline to schedule dinner. That’s not a generation gap; that’s a generation chasm! With a 19-year-old daughter, I can’t imagine living in this world without texting. I remember my father-in-law didn’t believe in online banking; I can’t fathom life without it. But I refuse to be on Snapchat (that Snap Map freaks me out) or TikTok. I know I’m missing out on some fun viral dances, but my friend says she scrolls on it for hours, and I’m pretty sure it sucks her brain cells out. I do like Instagram Reels though — they save me so much time. I don’t have to actually watch TV anymore. The Reels show me all the good scenes, and AI tells me the whole plot and how it ends. I can’t sit through a TV show anyway, so the Reels are perfect for my short attention span.
The other day, I was feeling like an old gray mare when I overheard my daughter describe me to her friend: “My mom? Oh, she’s like a little lamb.” I don’t know what the heck they were talking about, but it made me smile. And after discussing a claim with a health insurance agent for 30 minutes on the phone, she exclaimed, “Oh, wow, you’re 62 — you have a young voice, I thought you were like 40.” (Note to self: No Facetime from now on.) But really, I don’t want to be 40 — caught up in the rat race with three kids and another yet to come. I like my g-g-g-generation.
