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Based on the information supplied by Rick Morrissey’s April 28 column, I make the diagnosis that he’s suffering from the first wave of honky midlife crisis. This malady is precipitated by the frantic notion that the world is moving too fast, that today’s life is bereft of balance and beauty, that former decades were close to utopian splendor.
My prescription is to stuff all those glowing images of yesteryear into a large attic trunk and keep it locked tight, except for an occasional peek. Ignore this treatment, Rick, and you venture toward joining the likes of Archie Bunker, Barry Goldwater and Norma Desmond. Your daily challenge is to wage war against sweet yesterdays that never were.
