You raise ’em up right. You give them an education. You make sure that they have all the advantages that you never had. But no matter what you do, they’re still kids.

Take my grandchildren, for example. Sure they love music, and their parents always give them enough allowance to see the big tours, like Ozzfest and Judas Priest. Of course, like most kids, they think the world started when they bought their first Nine Inch Nails ticket, and they’re completely clueless as to how things used to be.

For instance, just last month I was trying to tell them about life before MTV and how we relied on radio to stay current with acts like Todd Rundgren or James Taylor. I told them how we would buy the new album by, say, Jefferson Starship or The Moody Blues, rush right home and then stare at the album’s cover art while listening to the songs, only to be interrupted when it came time to flip it over to side two. But that didn’t go over too well. My granddaughter accused me of living in the past, while my grandson asked me what I meant by “side two.”


Then last week I was telling my grandkids how my buddies and I would rip off the local music store by walking in and distracting the clerk while one of us would walk out with the new release by Deep Purple or The Beach Boys underneath his jacket. But my grandson just rolled his eyes and accused me of “being an old fuddy duddy,” while my granddaughter told me that she and her friends would never do something “so lame.” “Not when there’s Kazaa,” she said.

Oh, brudder…

But last night was the worst. I was telling my grandchildren about how buying tickets was different before Ticketmaster. I told them how we’d camp out in front of the box office for two, three, sometimes even four days before tickets went on sale for a really big act, like The Allman Brothers Band or Elton John. Then I told them that tickets would cost only five, maybe six dollars. What’s more, I told them that back in the day there were never, ever, any service charges or convenience fees.

Well, you can imagine their reactions. They gave me that weird look that kids often give adults, the one that says that anyone over 18 doesn’t know diddley. But my granddaughter didn’t accuse me of living in the past, nor did my grandson call me an old fuddy duddy. Oh, no. Nothing like that.

Instead, they just called me a psychopathic liar. Right before they called the guys in the white coats to come and take me away.

Kids these days. Sheesh… What can you do?