And now it's time for a lesson in...

Good Plaid, Bad Plaid.


Good Plaid: Wearing a guitar and political frustration with your flannel shirt, like Neil Young. It is also a good idea to find some old boots and not wash your hair for a week. Do not attempt, however, unless you have talent.










Bad Plaid: Wearing a keffiyeh with your flannel shirt because the display looks cool. This makes you look like a pretentious east coast performance artist. Or emo. Especially if your hair covers one eye. Either way, not cool. If you are a pretentious artist, or an emo kid with no taste, proceed with the ensemble.










Good Plaid: Purple plaid pants and a taste for homicide and balloons. Jack Nicholson struts his stuff with a matching purple coat, nifty cane, and some kick-ass one-liners.












Bad Plaid: Yellow plaid pants and no credentials. Really, you better be damn hip to wear these things. Like Prince-hip. He can wear anything.













Good Plaid: Fiery red hair and a plaid skirt, a la Tori Amos. Works best in small, gay/lesbian-saturated music venues, or coffee houses. Also a plus if you've been playing the piano since you were two and a half and take drugs with shamans. (Oh yeah, and she's amazing.)











Bad Plaid: Suspenders and Pepto-Bismol plaid shorts. Who designed these? They look too retarded even for Avril Lavigne. But hey, never underestimate the power of dumb.













Good Plaid: Being a rock icon and symbol of the nineties. Just don't ever move to Kurt Cobain's hometown, Aberdeen, Washington. Let's just say "depressing" is too weak of a word to describe the place.









Bad Plaid: Being an icon for paper towels. You're not even the original Brawny Man! Grow a beard, you pansy.

Born to Be (and Dying) Wild

I love these guys. The retirement home runaways. I spotted them in Deerfield Beach, like pints of ale among glasses of lemonade. They could sit at home in easy chairs and watch M*A*S*H reruns, fussing over their blood-pressure medication, what time they’re going to have supper, going to bed at nine. They could have decided that it was all a slow ride downhill from sixty-five, but apparently they’re going wherever the hell they want (I think they were heading southwest, actually). Funny that they’re in the middle of South Florida, the retirement capital of the world, when they appear to be anything but tired. These guys are usually hard to find, and I admire when “getting old” is not on one’s agenda. I may be assuming too much. Maybe they didn't party all night and shoot smack like Keith Richards. Maybe they headed back to their senior community that night and played bridge. But you have to admire that they’re still riding their bikes, doing what they love as long as they’re able to. Of course not every elder should live like a rebel of sorts, and I know not every senior is a bore. But to an extent, age truly is a state of mind, and I believe if anything is gonna slow or bring you down, it should be bad knees and incontinence, not a number.