She's Not 17 Any More; Know What I Mean?

A short detour while working on the next blog post…

I was seven years old the first time I fell in love. I was absolutely captivated by the tinny, crackling sound coming out of my little transistor radio. The music was like nothing I had never heard before, and I couldn’t get enough of it. The name of the group was the Beatles. When a Beatles song ended on 1260 WNDR, I spun the tiny radio dial over to 1490 WOLF or 620 WHEN or 1390 WFBL. A Beatles song was always playing somewhere.

Just as JFK was the first “television president,” the Beatles were the first television/video band. The group’s introduction to America was on television – The Ed Sullivan Show on February 9, 1964. And their first movie, A Hard Day’s Night, has been called the forerunner of music videos and MTV. Those are the images of the Beatles that are burned into our cultural consciousness – the Fab Four frozen in time.

That’s why it was so startling to see Paul McCartney on Saturday Night Live this past weekend. Instead of that beaming, fresh-faced kid I see every time I re-run A Hard Day’s Night on DVD, I was looking at a puffy-faced Mrs. Doubtfire. And the voice? Let’s not even go there. This couldn’t really be McCartney, could it? I mean, he was his original black-and-white self just a couple of weeks ago as I watched the old Sullivan shows while trimming the Christmas tree.

Has it really been 46 years? There’s no way McCartney could have aged that much. It’s not like I’ve gotten any older. My eyes are almost as good as ever. So are my ears if you speak clearly enough. I still have all my teeth – until the appointment for that molar. The elbow twinge and knee thing are from sleeping on them wrong. And the stiffness after golf is nothing more than stress from work. Stress must also be the reason I sometimes go to bed a little earlier, which is why Saturday Night Live for me was Sunday morning, recorded.

Besides, I don’t really look any different. My brows are only falling over my eyes a little. That extra bit of skin on my neck is from losing weight. I’m shorter now than I was in sixth grade only because I have a bad back, not because of age. Yes, my temples – only my temples! – have a touch of white. I do color my beard, but only to keep those few prematurely gray whiskers from standing out, thank you! And who are these kids who keep calling me Grandpa Pete?

Okay, okay. But is it really self-denial if you don’t feel old? Not long ago, my good friend Mike recalled that when our parents were this age, they were old. At least they seemed that way to us. Is that how our kids see us? I don’t think, feel or act any differently now than I did in my 20s and 30s. If 60 is the new 40, I’m still in my 20s. Heck, sometimes I still wonder when I’ll become an adult.

I now listen to the Beatles on digital satellite radio. Or on CD through a home theater system. The music is so much clearer now. So are the words. When Paul McCartney sang “Well she was just seventeen, you know what I mean” on that little transistor radio, I had no idea what he meant. Now, of course, I do and if I really think about it, it kind of creeps me out. Maybe it’s a sign I am getting older. And that’s okay.

A final irony – I saw the latest Beatles/iTunes commercial on TV just now. They say some things were never really as good as we remember them. That’s probably true. Sometimes they’re even better.