A Stepford Life

Sometimes I wish I lived in the fifties. It seemed like such a happier, more innocent time. Cars were always clean and waxed to a gleaming shine; lawns were always perfectly cut in evenly spaced, parallel lines. Every man wore a fedora whenever outdoors to keep out the glare, whenever indoors they always had perfectly combed, slicked back, hair. Every man would come home to his perfect home and his perfect wife and his perfect life and his perfect kids to a hot, delicious meal fit for a king. After dinner every man, dressed in slippers and a robe (with his initials stitched in gold) would sit in his chair and light up a pipe, pour a scotch on the rocks, and read the paper all night. On the weekend every man would put on a mitt, go outside and teach his son how to pitch, hoping and dreaming his son would become the next Mickey Mantle or Roger Maris, hoping and dreaming his son will one day bring home the pennant. Hoping and praying this illusion, this fleeting perfect image, will never change or fade or fall apart at the seams. For to every man, what seems like a flickering dream projected on a movie-hall screen, is payment for risking their lives. For fighting the good fight. For killing Nazis and Japs. For dying in packs. It's a reward for defending freedom in all of it’s forms, and becoming hero's and the legends of yore. Yes, I think it would have been really nice driving that oversized car, or wearing a pair of silly slacks and an even sillier hat on an eighteen par. or watching 'I love Lucy' or Jackie Gleason, cause I would have known damn well, all of this, would have been for a reason.