don’t think too badly
of one who’s left holding sand
he’s just another dreamer
dreaming ’bout Everyman
— the prophet browne
There are some things you try not to think about because they’re just too damn depressing.
Asics stopped making Piranhas. The glaciers are melting and we soon will collectively be underwater. And the worst of them all, the Brady Bunch Kids are old.
The Brady Kids were my peer group. The show began in 1969, around the time I was trying to figure out what it took to be cool in a small West Texas town. That being, of course, surfing, permed hair and vests with tassles. Greg was a year older than me, Peter a couple years younger, and Marcia (whom I secretly had a lengthy romance with although I’m not sure she ever knew) was my age.
They’re stuck in my head forever, a little time capsule of my youth. When I run across the show, I’m 13 all over again. So it’s always a shock to encounter a pack of old people purporting to be Bradys. Which is what happened today.
HGTV is filming some show in which they re-do the old Brady house, which they recently bought. I assume this will make for an endless series of blah blah Brady flashbacks and such. I’m glad they have a job. But.
How is it that they are all Old and yet I remain perpetually young? I am still at most 16 or so, illegally buying Boone’s Farm and playing Steppenwolf at excessive volumes. To see photos of them aging is to raise the possibility that I also am old, and I will have none of it.
Of course, it could explain the 15:12 pace today. But HR was averaging 108, so I’m dialed in. Unlikely anyone will answer.
After abandoning the SCC track because the teams kept taking it over, I found the softball team on the soccer field at the hotfoot loop today. Almost nailed by a foul ball. I clearly am being stalked. Although I probably shouldn’t say stalked and Marcia in the same sentence. Marcia, Marcia, Marcia.
I really need to work on my theme song. Here’s the story of a crappy runner …