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“Can I help you find anything?” the youthful Newbury Comics salesman asked me.
“If I find it, I’ll let you know,” he said without missing a beat and marched off to shelve the latest release from yet another band I’d never heard of.
What was I doing here?
Let me back up. The idea of trying to be “hip” has been on my mind ever since I turned 47. Despite my backpack wearing, laptop carrying, latte-chugging lifestyle, I began suspecting I wasn’t the youngest person in the room anymore. My cultural sweet spot hovers somewhere between 1979 and 1999. Sure, I have a smart phone, and have built my obligatory social media identities, but I feel bumbling in my efforts to stay on top of technology. I don’t own a TV, so I miss out on the cult shows. The time when I’d endure long lines at clubs to see bands, even ones I’d never heard of, was passing. I’m happy staying home and listening to my collection of obscure K-Tel records.
Also: People suddenly call me sir.