(Editor's note: This column was originally published April 24, 2004.)
When you turn 50 as I did this week, you might understand:
A black-on-black 442.
The long version.
The White Album.
Mr. Green Jeans.
Dick and Jane.
Bullwinkle and Rocky.
Nov. 22, 1963 (I was at recess, playing kickball).
The eternal flame.
I have a dream.
Good night, David.
Good night, Chet.
And that's the way it is.
Yeah, yeah, yeah.
I want to hold your hand.
I am the greatest.
I am not a crook.
Tear down that wall.
One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.
Nip it, nip it, nip it.
Paul is dead.
Ford to NY: Drop dead.
The devil made me do it.
I'm just a country lawyer.
My fellow Americans.
If I had a hammer.
The Thrilla in Manila.
The Battle of the Sexes.
What, me worry?
To Sir, with Love.
Starts with P, which rhymes with T, and that stands for trouble.
Do not adjust your sets.
Ask not what your country can do for you; ask what you can do for your country.
The Invisible Man.
Windshield wipers slapping time.
In your heart, you know he's right.
What we have here is a failure to communicate.
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.
Shake, rattle and roll.
Papa's Got a Brand New Bag (Part I).
Check the oil.
We were born at the same time the U.S. Supreme Court struck down the old lie of separate but equal public schools.
We saw the first color TV and the first steps on the moon. We barely dodged Vietnam, but our nation didn't.
When we were in college, the separate rules for girls were forced out. We thought protests worked; we certainly saw a lot of it.
The Mustang and the Beatles blasted us into the fast lane, where we would later latch right onto the Internet.
We have worked hard and tried to keep our children from repeating our mistakes.
I doubt that we'll sit still for our Metamucil.