Sundays aren’t quite what they used to be. So spent my day catching up on other people’s journals.

One of the fallouts of my turning 40 this year has been that I have become acutely aware of just how many things I *cannot* do any more, even though I want to.

For example, the Bangalore LJ crowd seems to have had a ball at their meet. Would have loved to be there, but it is one thing being part of a tech or professional crowd, and another when most people at the party are around half your age.

I mean, I wouldn’t have minded, but recent experiences have taught me that younger people do tend to feel a bit uncomfortable when they have someone twice their age around.

Mind you, I don’t blame them – I was the same at their age. What is strange is that just a few years ago, when they were younger, and so was I, this difference never mattered, but today, it appears it does.

“Hanging out” with friends tends to happen more with my own age group, but rarely with younger friends.

Music-wise, I am a dinosaur for most of them, so with nothing much in common there too, one tends to drift apart.

Unfortunately, I do not have much contact with the Bangalore live music scene, so finding people who enjoy playing the kind of music I play (well, try to play) is not always easy. Living on (what some people have referred to as) the dark side of the moon as far as Bangalore is concerned hasn’t helped much, either.

So while I’d love to have people over (or drop in on others) to play music together, I find that I have to rely more and more on electronics to accompany me.

Not a very comfortable feeling, especially since (apart from reading), playing music is really my only hobby. And somehow I think that it is a wee bit too late to switch to collecting stamps or gardening – the damage is already done in my mind.

The old Rocker wore his hair too long,
wore his trouser cuffs too tight.
Unfashionable to the end — drank his ale too light.
Death’s head belt buckle — yesterday’s dreams —
the transport caf’ prophet of doom.
Ringing no change in his double-sewn seams
in his post-war-babe gloom.

Now he’s too old to Rock’n'Roll but he’s too young to die.

–”Too Old To Rock ‘N’ Roll: Too Young To Die”, Jethro Tull