I think I mentioned that last week I got old and turned 31. Let me see, ah yes, there it is. I knew I wasn’t losing my mind already. Phew. I mention this because I think I have finally completed my transition to Completely Fucking Outta Touch With The Youngsters. It’s been a while since I understood a single word said by Carson Daily, but I used to think I dressed at least partly hipply.

When I was a wee lad in stirrup pants and a jockstrap (I’m talking about Little League, you perverts!), we used to spend hours working the brim of our caps into the proper shape. It was mandatory that you get it into just the right curve, not too angular but with a nice arc to it, like a good throw from centerfield to home plate. If you didn’t have a well-turned brim, at the end of the game (games we inevitable lost by a landslide) you had to settle for RC Cola, not the good stuff: Mello Yellow.

Nowadays, though, I’ve noticed the curved brim is decidedly not cool. The with-it inner-city kids I see on the subway leave their brims flat as my washboard abs. You could balance a ping pong ball on those things. They jut out like a diving board. Flat like pancake. Flat like a joke falling at a wake. Flat like still water. You could walk the plank of those things. Flat I say. Enough said.

My collection of vintage (and ironic) head gear, once the definition of fashionable, is suddenly useless and foolish looking. I guess it’s time for me to cut the umbilical cord to yesteryear and put the lot of them up on eBay. I’m sure the one that says “Reynold’s Towing” won’t fetch much, but “I’m With Fatty” might buy me a half-decent dinner.