I must be getting old.

Not long ago, I spent a few minutes administering what I call a “cultural awareness test” to the students in my wife’s Appreciation of Fine Arts class at Hazen High School. I was thoroughly disappointed to discover that not a one of them recognized the name of one of my favorite song writers from that far gone era when I was their age.
We’re not talking about Hoagy Carmichael or Jimmy Van Heusen or Irving Berlin or even George M. Cohan, not that I would have expected them to recognize any of those names either.
The song writer in question is Steven Stills, who, unlike any of the other guys I mentioned, is still among the living.
Stills was a part of two of the most popular groups of the 1960s; Buffalo Springfield and Crosby, Stills and Nash. As far as the students in this high school class were concerned, I might as well have been talking about the most popular song writer on another planet.
Come to think of it, I guess I was. Anything that happened before they were born, these kids consider to be from another world and therefore beneath their contempt.
Now I know how my parents felt when I was a teenager and they started talking about Jimmy Dorsey or Glenn Miller and my eyes would roll heavenward. Since then, I’ve come to appreciate big band music from the “swing era.” But at the time, I just thought my folks were hopelessly out of the loop. They had no use whatsoever for the music I was listening to, either.
This, I suppose, is standard operating procedure between generations. And it’s a shame.
I suppose I should take comfort in the knowledge that Wolfgang Mozart was all but forgotten within a few years of his death, as well.
It is with no small amount of pride that I say my sons not only know and appreciate the music of the 60s and 70s groups I loved, but also know the lyrics to most of the songs written by George M. Cohan, whose career peaked during the first world war.
And I am not totally unaware of today’s popular recording artists, although I must admit I’ll ever be a big fan of Emenem or Snoop Doggy Dog or any of the rappers and hip-hop performers who think violence toward women is a fit topic for song lyrics.
And as far as I’m concerned, you could take the Back Street Boys, N’Sync, and all the other prefabricated boy groups, dump them in a pile with the Monkees and set fire to them. I would feel no sense of loss.
On the other hand, there are current groups like the Dave Mathews Band, Bare Naked Ladies, and the Blues Travelers that I really like. Maybe that’s part of my problem; I can’t decide which era I belong to, the one I grew up in, the one I’m living in now, or the ones that came before which I’ve only learned to appreciate as I’ve grown older.
Those of you who suffered through last week’s edition of my semi-neurotic musings will recall that I observed the anniversary of my birth last week. Just to show you how much my wife loves me, as a birthday present she made reservations for me at The Looney Bin.
Don’t get your hopes up, gentle readers. She’s not having me locked away a giggle jacket, in a room with rubber walls, at least not yet. The Looney Bin is a comedy club in West Little Rock. I’m always on the look-out for good jokes to steal.