I know I’m getting old. I’ve accepted that gravity now wins every argument with my knees, and I’m fine with it. But what I don’t understand—what absolutely fries my remaining brain cells—is this new generation’s obsession with performing for absolutely nobody. I pulled into a gas station today to get gas, you know, the thing gas stations were invented for. And there’s this kid, maybe 24, standing in front of a white Cadillac Escalade that looks like it ate a smaller car for breakfast. He’s got oversized rims spinning like some kind of chrome migraine and rap music so bad it could be used as a weapon in wartime.

He’s not getting gas. He’s not even pretending to go inside. He’s just… dancing. In the parking lot. Sipping an energy drink like it’s holy water. Right in front of the door, like he’s the greeter at the world’s worst club. I’m sitting there wondering if I’ve missed some cultural memo that says public gas stations are now stages for low-effort interpretive dance.

Maybe I am old. Maybe the punk inside me is malfunctioning. I never once felt the urge to pogo in front of a Speedway while blasting the Misfits. Probably because I was too busy having an actual life. But here in the Ohio Valley, apparently this is what passes for entertainment. Forget work, hobbies, or critical thought—just blast bad rap music and hope someone, somewhere, is impressed enough to validate your existence.

I’ll be over here fueling my car, muttering about the collapse of civilization, and resisting the urge to throw an “I Survived the ’90s” sticker on his hood.