2014? Not on my watch!


It’s a new year, but see­ing 2014 roll around on the dial scared the be­jee­bers out of me! Af­ter all, 2014 is 30 years af­ter Or­well’s night­mar­ish 1984, and it’s a crazy era even he couldn’t have con­jured up! Who needs that kind of new year? Not me! In fact, I want to for­get 2014 and wel­come back some old years in­stead.

I could pre­tend it’s 1957. Eisen­hower is pres­i­dent again, the econ­omy is rolling, and com­pany-paid health care and a full re­tire­ment are the norms of the work­ing world. On my lunch hour, I could go to the town square and watch all the ladies walk by in their crisp dresses and white gloves, while I tip my hat to each of them as I read the lat­est adventures of Su­per­man from the comic book I’d buy at the drug­store. And I could test drive a brand new ‘57 Chevy. Ev­ery­one wanted one of those cars; with a lit­tle imag­i­na­tion, we’d get a sec­ond chance to own one.

Or, I could pre­tend it’s 1967, as the “Sum­mer of Love” is about to start. I could grow my hair out, skip a few baths, and lis­ten to all th­ese new bands like The Byrds, Jef­fer­son Air­plane, and Ja­nis Jo­plin, the fe­ro­cious singer who prefers a Mercedes Benz to her friends’ Porsches. I won­der if she’d like my new ‘57 Chevy? Maybe she’d write a song about it. If not, I bet Mama Cass would!

I might pre­tend it’s 1974 so I could snicker at the leisure suits on the man­nequins. Leisure suits al­ways scared me more than any of Or­well’s fic­tion. Richard Nixon used to scare me, too, but he had the de­cency to re­sign in 1974 af­ter he was caught spy­ing. I can’t say that about our cur­rent lead­ers. They be­lieve spy­ing to be a con­sti­tu­tional right, per­formed for our “pro­tec­tion.”

I’d pre­tend and pre­tend just so I wouldn’t have to ad­mit it’s re­ally 2014. I’d take any­thing over a world where gov­ern­ment sucks at your soul, and dis­hon­esty is a call­ing card for suc­cess. Yes, give me 1957 or 1967 or even 1974 if you must. I could drive my new ‘57 Chevy. I could write tunes with Mama Cass. I could even buy a leisure suit if it meant stop­ping the cal­en­dar. You can go on to 2014 with­out me. I’m not that brave.

David McCoy, a no­to­ri­ous sto­ry­teller and proud Yel­low Jacket, lives in Cov­ing­ton. He can be reached at davm­c­coy@bell­south.net.

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