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2004-02-07 - 3:54 p.m.

Makeover

For the past few weeks I’ve been trying to find something—or someone—to blame for my transformation from a half-assed left-wing liberal to a cranky, short-tempered, nit-picking right-wing conservative. I’ve considered everything from a lack of grease and fat in my diet to a lack of sex in my life. Or maybe—as my pending lawsuit states--it’s because I’ve caused a lack of sex in the plaintiff’s life. More than likely it comes down to age. As a friend eagerly pointed out: I’m not a kid anymore.

My unexpected makeover to conservative does not, however, mean I like George Dubya anymore than I did when he cheated his way to The White House. No, in my opinion he’s still a liar and a cheat and a crook. Your average Joe politician. But there has been a shift in my thinking and my behaviors. I have to wonder if this swing to the right is a positive thing, even though I was only a half-assed liberal and never really completely bought into the whole of the liberal movement as a kid and young adult.

My parents were conservative; the bright red in Dad’s plaid flannel shirt and the five-year-old 1963 VW Bug he bought for my first car were about as left of center as he got. Mom, although not a prim stick-in-the mud, is still conservative. From them I learned to be conservative. Still, like a lot of kids growing up in the late 60s and 70s, I tossed out a lot of what I’d learned at home and jumped to the left side of the fence. But not too far left. Blame it on some lingering lessons from home, or blame it on a cowardly notion I might just get lost in all that open-minded liberalism.

I held a few hippy views, especially when it came to the freedom of individuals and the ‘land grab and diminishing resources’ philosophy, but I didn’t completely endorse the utopian fantasy. I had no burning desire to go to Woodstock, and I knew damn well what would happen if Dad found out I was living a free love lifestyle! And I never dressed the part. I’ve never owned jewelry in the shape of a peace symbol or a tie-dyed article of clothing. I had some hip-hugging bell-bottom jeans but only because they were all I could buy in the early 1970s. I hated the damn things.

I still hate the damn things. In fact, part of my right-wing conversion manifests itself when I go off on a tangent about how kids dress today. Exposing any and all body parts seems to be the trend in kid fashion design. They think they are da bomb or phat or whatever today’s slang term is for cool; I think they look bizarre—and half naked. The wigger style of pants on the guys baffles me. How the hell can they walk when the crotch of their pants is hanging to their knees?

And I have no tolerance for excessive piercings. Not long ago I had a kid in my office who had rings and studs in her eyebrows, nose, lip and tongue and several small studs running up the edges of both ears. And her hair was maroon. I didn’t ask what else she might have pierced or dyed, but before I could stop myself I blurted: “Gawd, doesn’t that hurt?” She wasn’t amused with my out-of-it old-lady attitude.

And I’m no longer amused with the attitude of some kids. Easy come, easy go. Everything in life appears to be disposable to them. For some, responsibility is fictional, something someone else can take for them. They seem to have little they believe in, and what they do believe in is empty and short-lived. Lately, I’ve become very angry very quickly with some young people. I’ve forgotten I guess, that I was once one of them and had some crazy ideas of my own. Maybe I’ve taken one step too far to the right.

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