Hooligans!

Editor's Note: Commedienne Pam Stone writes her column for The Tryon Daily Bulletin twice each month from her office in the "Unabomber Shack" on her Gowensville farm. Want a chance to respond to this column? Go to Pam’s blog at www.tryondailybulletin.com.
I caught myself the other day, after seeing a couple of battered mailboxes lying in the street, uttering the word that plants me firmly in what I call the "old fa**" phase of my life:
"Hooligans!"
The horror of it all. And if that's not bad enough, as I was hacking my young horse down the shoulder of my normally quiet country lane, I yelled at an approaching speeding, truck, "Hey! SLOW DOWN! There's kids on this road, pal!"
It's just a matter of time before I'm standing, shotgun loaded, in the middle of my property yelling at passersby to "Get the hell off my land!"
What's happening and how did it sneak up on me? To quote Albert Brooks from the film, Lost in America: " I used to be hip, honest!" Really. Not that many years ago, I could have told you every band that played on every alternative station in the country. My buddies and I eschewed anything that smacked of "trend" and frequented only the most secretive clubs. Our normal hang out was "The Central," in Los Angeles: a dingy, hazy, bar one reached by descending a narrow, dank, stairwell which we had to abandon in disgust after learning it had been bought by Johnny Depp, renamed "The Viper Room" and gained notoriety as being the celebrity hangout where River Phoenix overdosed in the parking lot on a lethal combination of drugs.
Breakfast was occasionally taken weekdays (never weekends, too many tourists) at Duke's on Sunset, elbowing in at a back table, sharing a ketchup bottle with the likes of Tom Waites or the hung over drummer from the Ramones. No one spoke. No one hit up anyone for autographs... there seemed to be a mutually respected, shared, bond of conduct.
So, what happened? I certainly didn't have kids, thus there has been no moral obligation to set a "good example," and I certainly haven't left my progressive sense of politics. It is possible, however, that I am simply weary of man's continual unkindness towards his fellow man. Whether it be the unfathomable cruelty behind the bombings in Iraq, the misery that is Darfur, the greed behind sub prime lenders, or the blatant disregard for the health of children and pets in exchange for our frenzied pursuit of "Everyday Low Prices," I've just had it. I'm tired of mindless violence, even if it's by a couple of bored sixteen year olds cruising back country roads at night looking for a bit of mischief. I certainly egged a house of two in my early teens. I wasn't even angry at the family: I simply joined in with the other kids because it was dark, our parents were out, and the sense of danger was intoxicating.
I just want things to slow down. I want people to be kind and respect each other's opinions. I want people to stop throwing their cigarette butts out of the car window. I used to say I wanted things to be the way they were back in the "good old days" of the 1940s and 50s until a friend of mine pointed out that during those "good old days" he was prohibited from being served at a lunch counter. So, now, to confound things, I'm realizing that there never really have been any "good old days" for every group of people.
Oh, well. If I retained one thing from my three years of college it's this: "For every action there is a reaction." There's not a reason in the world I can't walk up to the house with the battered mailbox and enquire if they'd like help in repairing it.
Hooligans.