I read in ARA a piece of news that “speaks to me”. Tibidabo will be “the stage for the biggest event ever conceived entirely for the active senior generation”. Wait, this must be about me and those of my generation. Are we active seniors? Absolutely! We want to party! It is being promoted by a platform called Club65, which makes me think I will be one of the youngest at the gathering. This club says it will “fill the peak of Barcelona with talent, music, humor, and well-being”, and that makes me smile. Since we are seniors, there will be talent, yes; music, yes; humor, too, and well-being. This means there won't be many large beers, as we are of a certain age. The party will have a “marathon schedule”, they promise me, and upon reading it, I sharpen my claws. I will close the after-party, I will see the sunrise. But then I keep reading and my joy turns to disappointment (it's an expression we seniors use a lot, like the juniors, who say bro). The marathon schedule runs from “11:00 to 21:00”. In other words, at nine-thirty, yogurt and off to bed.
The music that will be there is also very senior. There are no Tyets, nor any Sex Pistols tribute band. There is Los Sírex, who are also seniors, and the Beatles tribute band, Abbey Road. The humor part is provided by another senior: Joan Pera.
I am in a difficult bracket. On the train, it outrages me that they don't give me their seat, because it seems unbelievable, and it outrages me that they do give it to me, because what do they think? It outrages me to think that this year, if I didn't work, I would already receive the pink card, and if I received it, I would tear it up, but it outrages me even more not to receive it, and if I don't receive it, I will protest. I claim my right to duality, to senior immaturity, to be an ancient terrible, to say that they won't make me go to sleep like the chickens, just to start nodding off at nine. Bro.
