Preoccupied With 1985

Or, how a silly pop punk song triggered all of the core memories.

Photo by Wesley Tingey on Unsplash

A wise man once said, “I wish there was a way to know you're in the good old days before you've actually left them.”

I’ve always acutely identified with this sentiment. It pretty much sums up my entire outlook on the vagaries of existence.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve perpetually had the damnedest time enjoying what I’m doing-or where I’m at-because I know that it will all be over sooner rather than later. Even as a kid, back when time seemed to drag and crawl and chug along at a glacial pace, the family vacations and fun times were over much too soon. You could almost say that I’ve always known when I was in the good old days before I actually left them.

I remember feeling this most keenly as a teenager. I was one of those weirdos who actually enjoyed high school. I loved the vibes and the optimism and the fresh knowledge and, most of all, hanging out with muh peeps.

Most people can’t wait to get out of high school, but not me: I never wanted it to end.

That’s not to say my teenage years weren’t fraught with the usual conundrums: overbearing parents, bad decisions leading to disastrous consequences, wallowing in hormonal angst, and so on and so forth and what have you. But there was also so much fun and excitement, and there was always a brand new experience right around the corner. There was the first time I drove by myself; the first time I saw an R-rated movie with my friends at the local multiplex; developing a keen interest in those beguiling members of the fairer sex.

And there was music.

Don’t get me wrong: The late 90’s and early 2000’s were not exactly halcyon days when it came to music. There was a metric ton of aural excrement, and, at the time, I hated most of it (however, my friend was a massive Limp Bizkit fan and their turn of the century output was the soundtrack to a great many of our shenanigans). Nowadays, though, I find myself appreciating many of the songs I once rejected more than ever before.

Is it because:

1. I’ve mellowed as I’ve gotten older, and I’m not as much of a snob as I was in my fiery youth?

2. Is it because that stuff was never actually all that bad to begin with?

3. Or is it because the music is intrinsically chained to the core of who I am and how I got here?

Instead of rejecting them outright, the nu metal song that used to grate on my nerves, or the pop punk anthem that I used to think was tacky and tasteless suddenly appeal to my once elitist faculties. I suspect the answer is a bit of all three, though that last option is doing a lot of the heavy lifting in this scenario.

I don’t really know what the point is in saying all of this. It’s not like my life sucks and I want to go back; although there was a time several years ago when I would’ve made that trade in a hot second. Sure, things could always be better, but I’m pretty satisfied with where I’m at: I’ve got a halfway decent job (in spite of all my past efforts to sabotage my future self), a pair of awesome kids, and an amazing wife who is so far out of my league that she might as well be from another galaxy.

I guess the point is that there doesn’t really need to be a point. Why else have a Substack if you don’t utilize it to just write whatever you want whenever you want? All I know is that I happened to listen to the two songs below while going about my fatherly duties last night, and a comforting wave of nostalgia mixed with melancholy memories washed over me in just the right way that I absolutely had to wax poetic about it.

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