This Is Not My Beautiful Life

A friend was telling me about the uplifting new documentary he's just seen. (Don't worry; this is not an ''up with people'' post. The words ''uplifting'' and ''documentary'' make my own lip curl in ordinary, healthy response, too.) Anyway, this documentary is called "Young at Heart", and it's about a band of seniors who tour the country, playing instruments and singing. I think they perform at rest homes, hospitals, churches; the usual B-list venues. So far, so good. I think plucky, I think defiant, I think, ''do not go softly into that good night". I feel indulgent towards them, maternal. I even feel a delicious poignant twinge at the inevitable loss of a few founding members, mid season. (Guess they were off to their own final tour.)

I wish them well, that is, until I learn their repertoire. Turns out that this band of graying oldsters have been straying from what I'd call an acceptable song list, to cover hits from such bands as Sonic Youth, The Clash, and Talking Heads. Say what? How do they even know this music? Is this some bizarre payback for listening to their own children blasting A sides through the stereo?

Granted, these bands were around long before the advent of ipods, but still--aren't these old people we're talking about? Gray haired, out of the loop, clinging charmingly to a long decayed youth? Shouldn't they be reminiscing about Big Band tunes? Reliving the glory days of the USO? I'm talking ''Soldier Boy", not ''Soulja Boy'', you know? I mean, they can have Barry Manilow and Air Supply. Maybe even Foreigner, if pressed. But--The Clash? Talking Heads? What's next? Janet Jacskon? Ben Folds Five?

It's not cute anymore, now that the old are encroaching on my turf. It means, uncomfortably, that I am encroaching on theirs. And I don't like that. It gives me that same spasm of fear I feel when I see parachute pants referred to as ''vintage''. I mean, I joke that the musack wafting through the halls of our nation's rest homes will one day be instrumental gansta rap. One day. A long time from now. The thought makes me snicker. But humor is distance, and the Young at Heart are shuffling awfully, uncomfortably, close.