Well folks, this week marks the end of my Living in the 70’s experiment, and semi-reluctant return to modern life. My only disappointment was not being able to dress like an authentic 70’s person, as Long Suffering Wife absolutely refused to tell me where she’d hidden my old towelling hat, ultra-tight shorts, and ‘Life. Be In It’ t-shirt.
Anyway, for one pleasant month, instead of trying to figure out how to use, fix, or maintain, all the new-fangled technology cluttering our house (and eventually, our recycling bin), I’ve spent more time reading, walking, playing my guitar and singing; accompanied by the sound of doors and windows slamming shut up and down our street.
And I did a lot of thinking, recalling the people and things I’ll never see again, e.g.: Grandma, and my flat stomach. This initially made me feel a bit sad, but I brightened up instantly when I remembered the other stuff I’ll never see again; Leyland P76’s, Tang, bright green lino, black and white TV’s, and Donny Osmond.
Plus mere words can’t express how fantastic it made me feel to know that I’ll never, ever again, have to endure another Sunday evening of toe curling agony watching The Black and White Minstrel Show.
It’s easy to pine for the nostalgic past, but if I was brutally honest, things weren’t that rosy back in the 70’s. You see, in spite of the Brady’s and Walton’s foisting American family values on us, divorce and crime rates shot through the roof, streaking made its’ debut at the cricket, and, for some crazy reason, we thought singing chipmunks were cool?!
Meanwhile, Uncle Sam was bombing the daylights out of third world peasants in an unwinnable war, and leaky boats full of refugees were turning up in droves on our shores hoping for a fresh start here in Oz… you know, not that much has changed really.
And that goes for me too. I’d like to report that my month of living in the past has changed me in some amazing way, but it hasn’t really; I’m still pretty much the same bloke I was a month ago, just much hairier. Actually, quite a lot hairier, because my out of control 70’s hairdo was the one thing Long Suffering Wife couldn’t stop me from wearing. Eventually she handed over my battered ‘Hang Ten’ cap to cover it up. Dyn –O – mite!