I knew forty was known as a page turner, but holy shit, this is a whole new book. Not for me, I’m as immature and childlike as ever, but the technology is rendering me old.

It was fine when I recently realized I couldn’t dress like Mrs.Roper anymore. I got the memo, ironic dressing is for the young and sexy. When you’re nineteen and you hunt down a hideous and outdated dress from your spinster aunty’s closet, it’s ironic. Maybe you’re like I was and you customize that shit, making it exceptionally short or sleeveless. Point being it’s yours and it looks like it’s yours– in a good way.

However at forty, jokes on you, you ARE the spinster aunty, so I later’d my Roper-wear. Next up was vintage lingerie and silk bed-jackets from the 1940’s and Victorian blouses with big sleeves and lace cuffs. Again with the irony, nothing like a girl covered in tattoos in a vintage silky, lace trimmed, ultra feminine bed-jacket. At forty you just look like you forgot to get dressed, like that IS your bed-jacket, not evidence of your impeccable style and amazing repair abilities with OxyClean and a sewing needle.

So after this purge, the latter was harder than the former, I was left with a closet full of “modern attire.” A couple dresses from the ’70’s and a jacket from the ’50’s, which could pass –IE they look like they were made last year and bought at some trendy retailer, were all that remained from my vintage collection. I figure my eyebrows and humor are ironic enough, I’ll let the jokes and brows speak for themselves, leaving my outfit out of it.

But on to these fuckers, my young friends. Working in skateboarding I’ve had the fortune of bathing in the fountain of youth, and the misfortune of having my development thwarted by permanent teen-agery — but that’s a whole ‘nother story. Anyway, I’m surrounded by friends who are typically ten to fifteen years younger than I.

A couple months ago I was given some CDs by a dude who saw my giant Rocket From The Crypt tattoo and decided to give me their jams. I protested, explaining that the gargantuan ink blot on my forearm should have established the idea that I probably already had their records. The audio samaritan said, ‘Even their first record?” “Yep, two copies,” I replied, but he was not to be thwarted and explained that I should turn the kids onto Rocket. Fair enough, I’ll be the messiah of rock and roll and spread the bad word.

I sauntered back to the gallery next door where we were hanging my friend’s photo show, CDs in hand. One of the other helpers du jour was my little buddy Ky (AKA Kynalu the Littlest Vampire). I have had the pleasure of hearing Ky’s iPod mixes and figured he was the ideal candidate to get down with my sermon and CD bequeathal. I pulled him aside and explained, “Rocket From The Crypt is one of the greatest bands ever. You will dance, you will learn the horn parts and backing vocals, you will be reborn a Rocket fan. Shit, you might even get a Rocket tatt.”

Ky looked at me like was a foreigner or an idiot and with a confused  and slightly disgusted tone replied, “CDs?” I wondered if I was getting set up for a CD’s joke, IE see deez nutz, but no, Ky was revolted by the CDs, which I thrust forward to explain myself, “Yes, take this CD, put it in your computer and then thank me.” He shook his head, almost like he felt sorry for me, “Robin… macbook air’s don’t have CD drives.” I sheepishly took the CD of the greatest first album ever  and put it in my bag. Clearly the message had been thwarted, I would have to find someone over thirty to divest of my musical treasures.

Next to unintentionally make me aware that I’m still riding between the cars on the subway, as the world is speeding along on high-speed rail, was Katie (AKA Extra Fancy). Katie just moved down to LA, and I want her to know she’s got a pal down here, as I know moving can be hard. So I call Katie and when she doesn’t answer I leave messages.

I come from a time before cell-phones. I come from the land-line, the home answering machine. I come from the time when you’d cue up your favorite song for your outgoing message, which had a musical intro followed by some catchy, impersonation of Kathleen Turner’s rasp, commanding your callers to leave a message at “the beep”. Now, coming from this place of antiquity, I left Katie (AKA Soooo Modern) the following message, “Hey Katie. It’s Robin. It’s Tuesday at like, 10:30. Just calling to see if you guys wanted to get coffee.” Pretty normal right?

No, pretty fuckin’ abnormal if you ask my friend Katie, who upon our eventual next talk, could not stop laughing. She just kept saying “Your message…” as she hyperventilated in a flurry of giggles. Finally she was able to catch her breath long enough to blurt out, “Your message was so funny!” Snorting she continued, “You left the day and the time! Bwahaha!” and she exploded in laughter.

I cocked my head to the side, not quite understanding where I’d gone wrong. I am the bane of my friend’s existence for refusing to get an iPhone. So Katie explained through her chuckles that smart phones tell you who called and when they called, that my message was, “Soooo old-fashioned.”

So although, I am years behind in maturity and development of an adult me, IE my forty feels more like twenty, I am being left behind by technology, thus making me aware of my actual chronology. It’s quite a “who’s on first” conundrum.  Wait… did I just date myself even farther back. Shit.