Point Loma’s ruminations on a changing culture brought a marked response from a crowd of those who grew up in the old culture. Marlow was inspired to characterize the perspective of age on us all. First, some of the pithier ones:

Joemaz:

After reading the call sign adventures of how a lost Naval Aviator had his call sign transitioned by his peers from SIR to Pyro I can’t stop laughing. Of course, most call signs don’t have that much drama attached to them, but how they established is part of what makes them interesting a fun.

To those who don’t know better the CINTRA guidance on call signs reads like common sense that anybody could agree to, but if you have had our experience you recognize it immediately as unwanted and unneeded paternalism. “YO, you guys with the wings who we invested $3 plus million in training you to fly a high performance aircraft on and off an aircraft carriers we can’t trust you (anymore) to collective determine calls signs for your peers.”

Part of joy of being in the Navy for me was the now disappearing tolerance for good natured immature behavior to satisfy my inner child.

From Bronco:

My favorite “situationally acquired” call sign was “Boots” for the newbie Phantom driver who over rotated so severely on his first heavy-weight cat shot that a witty squadron mate enjoying the spectacle from Vultures’ Row said “I can see his boots!”

(I was not colorful enough to earn a call sign. I had to pick my own).

From Marlow:

After reading Pt Loma’s latest on Navy callsigns, the time has come for something different:

(voiceover as slow rolling video of American landscapes taken from overhead streams by): My name is Ulysses S. My friends call me U S. These are my people . . . these are my beaches . . . mountains . . . railroads . . . cities . . . streets . . . neighborhoods . . . . life.

I am 244 years old. In less than a year, lots of these folks will be dead and decay will have set in. Of course, they don’t know that yet, and in a way, I’m dead already as an idea. Look at ’em, jerking off on TV and the internet. That will be the highlight of their day. It’s all downhill from there.

Those jerkoffs are my leaders, their whisperers, and their wanna-be leader’s horse holders. See the way they dress, talk, handle gotcha questions on those shouting match interviews? Those are not accidents, train wrecks maybe but not accidents. Over there are their loyal opposition and fellow U S lovers and countrymen. Man, I get exhausted just watching all of them.

They weren’t always like this. They each used to be happier. They all used to be happy. Their kids marching on my streets are pretty typical: angry, insecure, confused. I wish I could tell them that it’s all going to pass . . . but I don’t want to lie to them.

They haven’t known their parents’ normal since they were, what, maybe four or five years old.

When they were 6, they got their first smart phone or a computer for the older ones. They saw on those devices cops yanking people out of their cars, beating them, choking them, or snuffing them. That’s what normal is to them. They don’t like it. You understand what I’m saying?

Both my foreign friends and foes think I’m this gigantic loser. And in a way, they’re right. I have lost something. I’m not exactly sure what, but I know I didn’t always feel this . . . sedated (yes, in a Ramones kinda way). But you know what? It’s never too late to get it back.

I had always heard your entire life flashes in front of your eyes the second before you die. First of all, that one second isn’t a second at all, it stretches back forever. It all started for me as I was lying flat on my back when the Cold War flickered out one long ago summer eve, watching falling walls and shooting stars . . . and the turning leaves on the maple and oak trees that lined my streets . . . then I saw images of my oldest living natives’ and immigrants’ gnarled hands, and how their skin seemed like paper . . . and how their kids reacted upon seeing for the first time their friend’s souped-up jalopies.

I guess I could be really pissed off about what happened to me . . . but it’s hard to stay mad. Takes a lot energy, that.

Sometimes I feel like I’m seeing it all at once, and it becomes too much. And, then it isn’t, when I remember to relax, stop trying to hold on to it and keep it together as they used to blithely say.

Strangely what’s left is a feeling of gratitude for every moment of my short little life.

You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?

Don’t worry.

You will someday.

In the interim why don’t you join me as I’m going to watch a road trip sunrise tomorrow.

New day, maybe a new start? It won’t be easy, but we’d all be together again.

Any ways, sunrise always makes me feel good.

So, maybe afterwards, I’ll share a few things I learned in life, right?

Oh hell, here’s a preview . . . hate is some awful baggage. Life’s too short to be pissed off all the time. Just not worth it.

Like the wisest American said long ago: We are not enemies, but friends. We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained, it must not break our bonds of affection. The mystic cords of memory will swell when again touched, as they surely will be, by the better angels of our nature. (Thanks, Honest Abe)
So, take care of yourselves, eat a balanced diet and do some exercise. Avoid deep pore cleanser lotions — look your age. So, no honey almond body wash or exfoliating gel scrubs, mint facial masks, moisturizers, oils, unguents, balms, ointments, astringents, creams, milks, liniments, lubricants, embracants or bolsoms or other faux-beauty producing agents. Be real. Simply be you and be present.

And one last item — live and let live.

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