It Was a Different Time as if it Means Anything

Robert Burkenhare

Think of the person who makes excuses. The person who thinks they’re clever. The guy at the next table. The kid snapping her gum. The girl who’s smarter than you’ll ever be and she’s not even 13. Your doctor too tired to hide their contempt for your lifestyle. The asshole in the next bed. The horrorshow you went home with. Bosses. Landlords. God.  

Philosophers like to talk. And talk. What have they solved? There’s this Oscar Wilde quote about art being useless. Admitting it up front gets you no quarter, pal.

I had a professor in college in the 1980s who emphasized the Death of the Author New Criticism thing. That poisoned my critical faculties for the better part of two decades. Separating the art from the artist. Kinda like the judge asking the jury to ignore what they just heard. 

Being a man is walking into a room and instantly knowing who sees me as a threat, who knows they can dominate me. The ones who can dominate me? Walk past and keep your head down. The others? Hum a silly song. Don’t stare. Try not to be an asshole with your dumb male gaze. 

A woman saw me looking at her neckline a moment too long. What an asshole. Boys will be boars. Bores. Boorish. Boils and ghouls. 

In 1976 we celebrated the bicentennial as if it meant anything. Every year, cake and candles like not killing yourself is a big accomplishment. Actually, maybe it is. 

They just crowned this dope king. Lionel Ritchie sang. Like it meant anything. Being born into money and power is like falling off log and claiming you invented gravity. Or like using an emerald mine’s proceeds to fund your empire and slapping your name on an idea. Like it means anything. Trying to read the cards of the chump across the table and thinking you’re smart wearing mirrored aviators.  

I did cocaine once. It was a different time. And while I instantly understood the appeal, there was no second time. Well, there was another line, yeah, but no second time after that night. It was the one time. A different time. Time of my life? Maybe. The rest of that night was one for the books. Not any I’ll ever write. Better to keep some cards close to the chest. 

It was a different time. I was supposed to meet her at 7:00. I had the time wrong. Showed up late. She left. Last straw. I didn’t go looking for her. Where would I start? No cell phones then. Couldn’t pester her from afar. It was a different time. 

None of it matters. Except when it does. I stand in line and vote for the mayor, the alderperson, the governor, the president, city council, judges, landlords, god. It matters a great deal, even if it’s all farce. A dance. The dance of the dolts. I’m leading. Follow me. Cha-cha-cha. 

When some old fucker (like me) tries to tell you it was a different time and you have to contextualize and you can’t use this year’s mores to judge yesterday, give ‘em the lie. The truth shall be they warrant. Tell love it is but lust. Flesh dust. Kings stupid. The Queen only normal because she was around so long. Last year’s fashion this year’s fault. Maybe rightly. Give the lie to the fucker who says otherwise, who uses words they don’t understand, who thinks you’ve been through the same and must feel as they. Give every one the lie. The jerk who worked for the profit of someone they actually believe will one day give them any more of the pie than they can legally claim. And even then, probably not. Give the lie to meritocracy. To pulling yourself up by the bootstraps. Tell fortune of her blindness. Keep blabbing. Stabbing. No stab the soul can kill. Stab at will.