My older brother turned 46 yesterday. 44... That’s like 4 or 5 years away from 50. I could really care less if he is getting old. He’s got way more hair than me and it isn’t even as gray as mine. The problem is that I am only 2 years younger than him. That means I will be 44 very soon. That is halfway to 88, which was the last two numbers of a Van Halen album, which means absolutely nothing. I have a younger brother who will be 42 in November for crying out loud. I do have another brother and a sister but I have no idea how old they are. I tell everyone they are 23 and 24. I don’t think that is right but I doubt if they care.

I never even thought my dad was old until just recently. He and I got old at the same time. Two weeks ago. He came over and was sitting on my couch and suddenly I realized we were talking about what medicines we were on. At the moment of that revelation I audibly heard the music from the shower / knife scene in Pycho. REEENT! REEENT! REEENT! Holy Prune Juice Batman! I was like “Uh Dad, can we change the subject?” So we talked about horseshoes and how much gas mileage we were getting. When he left I developed a goiter and walked with a slight stoop.

So my brother Terry is 46. Seems only yesterday he was 16 and sitting on the couch with Kim Comerford and I got my toe caught in a coke bottle. He wanted some privacy but I was reluctant to get up and leave because I was sort of incapacitated by the 16 ounce glass slipper my Piggy That Went To Market was wearing. Finally I clumped off to find a hammer and left them alone.

I was always really interested in what Terry’s style was when we were younger. When we went school shopping (a time honored ritual where you got your new socks, new underwear and hopefully some bell bottoms or corduroys with a few new t-shirts along with Ticonderoga #2 pencils and a collegiate lined notebook) I was very interested in what he was getting. Again, not that I really cared about his social status but more because I was soon to get all those clothes when he grew out of them. Hand Me Downs. I tried to remind him to be careful in his Sears Wranglers. “Hey, take it easy dude. Don’t get those pants grass-stained.” I was probably a much better blocker for him in football as I didn’t want him to get tackled and rip a knee out of “my” jeans. Back then though we mostly played “Smear The Queer” (a most politically correct title I must add) and in that game it was every man for himself so I just had to hope he never got the ball. He always was smart so he let it slip out of his hands a lot and then someone else got the crap smashed out of them by the other 7 boys. We both made some pretty cool fashion choices in school and I had three consecutive school pictures wearing hip t-shirts. Seventh grade I had a shirt with THE Farrah Fawcett poster on it. Remember, this was THE poster. (Google Farrah Fawcett Poster on Google images) Eighth grade I had the Jaws theatrical release poster on my shirt (Google images Jaws Poster) and only the snout of the great white monster showed in the photo. Then in the Ninth grade I had a Queen concert t-shirt on. The Tenth grade moved into the Disco era and I had a green and white silk shirt on, open collar and a white denim vest. I had definitely sunk to a new low.

I remember Terry and I hanging out in our room which was in a detached garage listening to LP’s playing on the record player. Queen, REO, Boston and Led Zepplin. All the good stuff. We used to plug the record player into a guitar amp and turn it up so loud you couldn’t hear yourself think. Not that we were doing too much of that anyway. Back then you could just lay there for hours on end really thinking about nothing at all. Totally blank and oblivious to anything outside of that room. Thinking back it was sort of a Rock and Roll Coma. And we loved it. Whole Lotta Love at 80 decibels really cleanses the soul.

So Terry’s old, I’m old, Dad’s old. Such is life. At least Dad is the only one wearing tennis shoes with the Velcro across the top for now. We all probably know too much about the upcoming weather. We probably have all worn socks with sandals at least once. We know what someone means when they use the word davenport and we can remember when gas cost 25% of what it does now. (And it was fully leaded baby!) But we also saw Stevie Ray Vaughn live in concert. And Freddie Mercury. We all drove cars with carburetors that sucked fuel and did smoky burn outs without really trying. (Me and Dad the same car) We got to see Pistol Pete play basketball, Gayle Sayers play football and we remember when nobody touched a Nolan Ryan fastball. We were there.

I remember a few years back Terry and I went to Lollapalooza on a hot summer afternoon. The place was a circus and we had a ball. I remember thinking that we were young enough to enjoy Fishbone on stage and old enough to be able to afford good pavilion seats in the shade out of the blistering sun. That is where I want to be. On the ragged edge between youth and sans-a-belt pants. Turning the radio in the truck all the way up when Crazy Train comes on and driving with the windows down, fully aware that we are reducing our gas mileage. Old enough to know better, too young to care. Happy Birthday Bro.