1987

Greetings from Santa Fe, where I'm working on the next version of my textbook. I am writing with little news, but in its place I will relate a funny story—involving music and being old.

A few months ago a friend of mine and I decided to venture into the local bar, which advertised '80s night. Not knowing what to expect, we were pleasantly surprised to find young uns spinning actual records, and ones that we remembered. But then the weirdness started. We were sitting next to the DJs, and we also quickly realized that we were the oldest people in the bar.

In other words, there was no nostalgia for most of the attendees—as there was for us—but something else. We could not tell if the listeners were enjoying the music for its own sake, or had some ironic enjoyment.

Our questions were answered a few hours into our venture. First of all, the DJ, ayoung retro hipster, with jeans unfashionably/fashionably baggy, gave us the "thumbs up" a few times, apropos of nothing. Then someone came by and started to explain why he liked "our music" so much.

"I grewup listening to this in my mom's car," he said. "I really, really love the music."

I have to say I don't know how I felt about all this. I don't mind getting old, nor people planning a 40th birthday party. I like that I have "a music" that young people like. But it still felt strange to be the oldest person (save for my friend) at the bar, and having "adults" a decade and a half younger singing along to the words of Bon Jovi's "Living on a Prayer."

Any getting old stories? Pass them along.

296 Union St., Apt 2, Brooklyn, NY, 11231; jtsnyk@yahoo. com