Carrie Prejean, You’re No Anita Bryant

Same as it ever was?

I’m old: I have several silver hairs sprouting up around my temples just like Earth-2 Superman, pop music makes me angry, and if I don’t get to bed before 11 PM, I tend to be forgetful at work the next day and wander away from my cubicle.  And, like most old people, I am of the firm conviction that everything was way better when I was younger.  The rock stars wore more makeup, the movies had more space ships, and the tv shows had more hair.  Hell, even the bad things were somehow cut from a finer cloth than the bad things we’re stuck with today.  When I was younger, bad things were bad in a way that had meaning and gravitas.  These bad things–like the nuclear threat presented by the Soviet Bloc, and the belligerent wholesomeness of The Lawrence Welk Show– represented the culmination of a generation’s worth of massive-scale ideological brinksmanship from which there could be no turning back.   I’m talking about a time when the “zealot” pigeonhole was big enough to house more than just a contingent of Middle Eastern malcontents; back in the day, bad things and their respective attendants truly believed in their causes.  And they meant business.  With this historical perspective in mind, I really have a hard time taking Carrie Prejean seriously.  After all, I remember Anita Bryant.