Bobby Hatfield, one of the Righteous Brothers, died last month at age 63. He was the blond half of the blue-eyed soul duo that caused steamy windows at drive-in movies and was as responsible as anyone for unbridled population growth.
He was, along with Bill Medley, the liver-spot generation's version of Kurt Cobain. His death reminds my generation — we who already turn to the obit page first in The Economist magazine — of our own mortality. We wonder where the time went.
A Righteous Brothers' 33 rpm album was the first record a first former wife and I bought for our first tinny stereo in our first "garden" — visualize that very small — apartment. A mental whiff of the refrain "you've got that lov'in feeling" makes hormones do the goosestep.
Oh, you don't have that same feeling? You don't even get a goose bump? You're probably wondering where the techno-crap background is?
You probably like those dances where your partner is waving from across the room. I still prefer cheek to cheek, belly to belly, and don't give a damn because, as the Kingston Trio song went, "I done that already."
Obviously you actually read the Kyiv Post's “Day and Night” section, and hang on every syllable in What's On. You probably eat sunflower seeds and play with Frisbees. You're probably a mere meal away from becoming a vegetarian.
This is not a swipe, mind you, at those dandy publications, merely my curmudgeon gear kicking in. For allegorical purposes, we simply are from different planets.
Both pubs are intelligent reads, though one can easily peruse them while walking along Khreshatyk, chewing bubble gum, and humming Hank Williams' Jambalaya. In The Ukrainian Observer, on the other hand, we have cartoons.
What? You don't understand the cartoons? They're delivered to you in time warp? You need an owner's manual to comprehend the slightly obscure?
You see, I admit I am prone to big-time age bias.
I think it is almost normal.
Back during the 1960s we were told not to trust anyone over 30. We nearing what I call the “Yellow Leaf” period now have a hard time taking seriously anyone under 50, particularly if they are male and wearing an earring.
As with the aforementioned publications, this age bias should not be taken to heart. It is a cultural phenomenon, a condition that eventually besets most of us, unless you are Michael Jackson, who has a ranch named Never Land and an affinity for toddlers.
For the rest of us, however, and I don't mean to speak for the entire tribe, our senior moments are our badges of honor. We grew up with the Ozzie and Harriet Nelson family, parents of Ricky and David, and somehow think the whole TV Friends ensemble dysfunctional.
Time passes.
If you were in Kyiv when the Studio restaurant with its Marilyn Monroe motif opened and Nika was a favorite grocery store where expats received change for coupons in sticks of chewing gum, you're eight years older now. Think about it. Zip. Eight years gone.
I admit the last couple were tough on we senior expatriates. Where have all our heroes gone? While I normally wouldn't cross the street to meet anyone famous (maybe Wyonna Ryder), the losses of singing cowpokes Roy and Gene (Rogers and Autry) hit hard.
It was, in a strange way, the death of music, black and white celluloid, and the rainbow colored Wurlitzer we huddled around as if it were a warm campfire. We still remember the Marlboro man when she was a woman, Julie London, and the selling point was its famous red and white flip-top box, not dust, cows and leather.
When it comes to passages, this year has been no different.
Funnyman Bob Hope is now feeding his one-liners to Gabriel. I saw Hope perform in college. He was a half-decade younger than I am now, and I thought of him as ancient, wondering if he would make it through his energetic performance. He did, and did, and did, for about 40 more years.
The singer Johnny Cash, whom I interviewed on several occasions, died one night of a broken heart, his beloved June Carter preceding him by a few months. The first newspaper by-line I ever had at age 19 was about Cash not showing up for a performance. It wasn't unusual during his booze and pills days.
The actor John Ritter, whose father, the "B" movie actor and singer Tex Ritter, was a friend, likewise passed on. As a writer, I once collaborated with Ritter, the pop, on a series of anti-record piracy stories.
Today I have a closet full of black market movies and tapes in my possession, a symptom of long-term expatriatus.
That's one value of age, particular with we expats.
I find we can name and place drop with the best of them. We also know about 283 Blue Flame engines, GTO's (which has nothing to do with a government organization), and the style and grace of a 55-Chevy.
I am often accused of writing strictly from an American point of view. However, as the joints creak, the hair fades and the belly begins bouncing like a soccer (excuse me, football), I find we senior expats have more things in common not less, regardless of origin.
But, what goes around comes around.
I was at a wedding party the other night, and the singer was very accomplished. However, after consuming more Hennessy than even Mr. Hennessy would deem appropriate, I leaned over to my wife, and proceeded to tell her what the lady crooner was doing wrong.
This, from a tone-deaf guy who was once asked to leave a church choir. But I was the instant expert.
I learned everything I know from watching the kids on MTV and VH1.
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