From Pete Kahle, Directory Editor:

I am getting old.

This is no sudden epiphany of mine, not at all. Rather, it is a creeping suspicion that has become more apparent with the glaring evidence I see everyday. This evidence isn't physical; I'm not suffering from swelling in my joints, nor do I find it necessary to relieve myself five times a night. Neither is it mental; the slight loss of my short-term memory is not due to the advances of age, but instead can be attributed to a marathon game of Quarters in my junior year of college. No, the evidence is more insidious; it encompasses society as a whole.

I am on the wrong side of the generation gap.

My 30th birthday is just around the bend. I know what you're thinking: "Only 30! That's nothing! You've got years before you should be feeling this way." Before you jump to conclusions, listen to what I have to say.

Have you ever noticed how each generation clings to styles that pigeonhole them into specific decades? If a man nowadays has a moustache, he's either a NASCAR fan or his closet is filled with shirts that have collars out to the shoulders, and he secretly wishes someone would bring back eight-tracks. One look at him and you know he grew up in the '70s.

A man from my generation can usually blend in, but the telltale signs are still there. A pair of acid-wash jeans may be hidden in his dresser. Quiet Riot's album Metal Health is buried amidst his CD collection (I have a copy of Night Ranger's Greatest Hits myself). Secretly they wish for the Miami Vice style to make a comeback. They may have a couple of earrings or tattoos, but not much more.

A large number of the current crop has pierced every flap of loose skin on their bodies, from the standard earlobes to their nasal septa. Eyebrows, lips, and other sensitive body parts that were never meant to be near sharp objects are regularly subjected to having holes punched through them. Ritual scarification and other body adornments are becoming commonplace. (I once considered piercing my tongue, but my aversion to pain changed my mind rather quickly.) I'll often see someone walking down the street, festooned with steel, bits of chrome jutting from various parts of their face. I just stop and admire the view. Part of me revels in their individuality. Another voice in my head (of which I have many) says, "What in Hell were they thinking?" Barak Blackburn, a coworker of mine, often comments that they "just need a big hug."

Personally, I have three tattoos (only one of which I regret) and two earrings. I spent the better part of three years with my head shaved like Mr. Clean. I doubt I'll be getting any more adornments than what I currently possess. Maybe I'll shave my head again when my hairline makes its final journey toward the back of my cranium. But for now, I'm going to stick with what I've got, mainly due to something my stepmother Kathy once told me.

Kathy is the head nurse at a retirement home in upstate New York. One of her residents was once the Tattooed Man in a traveling circus in the '20s and '30s. He is covered from neck to wrists and ankles in exotic designs of blue, red, black, and green. You could once make out the images in the designs. Now he's just a big, sagging smear. The nurses have difficulty finding his veins beneath the morass of blobs on his skin.

Fifty years from now, the current generation will be like that - all smeared tattoos and pierced belly buttons. Think of what it would be like to have to remember to avoid Grandma's lip piercing when kissing her goodbye. Of course, who knows what future generations may bring? Considering the rate by which each generation seems to want to outdo the previous one, our grandkids may have body modifications out of a William Gibson novel. Embedded holograms in their dermis, warped bone structures, retractable claws and horns, fiber-optic hair that changes colors with the individual's mood, extra joints and tails ... the possibilities are limited only by the human imagination, coupled with the innate need for individuality. Get ready, folks, because you ain't seen nothing yet.

Perhaps I've convinced you that my concerns are genuine. Or maybe you still think I'm overreacting. I may have awakened some hidden fears that you didn't know existed. Or my ramblings may simply seem confused and paranoid.

If so, please forgive me. I am getting old, you know.

— Pete