I was watching an episode from the final season of one of my favorite TV shows, “Madam Secretary.” It was one of two episodes in which ’70s rock icon Peter Frampton appeared.
It was from 2019 and Frampton was singing his biggest song, “Baby I Love Your Way,” which was a No. 1 hit in the mid ’70s.
I was 25 years old when that song was a hit, and while Frampton was far more than a one-hit wonder, he was still someone who lived off that success for the next 40-plus years.
There must be something terribly painful about having massive success at such a young age and then never equalling or surpassing it in the rest of your life.
This isn’t intended to be at all critical of Frampton. His success is far beyond my own or that of anyone else I know, but I can’t help but wonder if he grew tired of singing that one particular song.
Most of my accomplishments came after 1975 — I was definitely a late bloomer — but ’75 was still a pretty nice year. It was the year of my first wedding, and the problems that ended our marriage were still off in the future. My return to school and my ultimate career were years away, but I got my first reasonably good job that spring and a 1973 Camaro that summer.
It was a time before ATMs and debit cards, cellular phones and personal computers. In fact, it was years before cable TV and 24-hour television stations (in most cities, at least).
The strangest part of it all is how so much of the culture then has lingered. “Saturday Night Live” debuted in September of that year, and next month SNL returns for its 48th season. Most of the biggest shows from back then are available on DVD or streaming video, and a surprising number of the biggest musical names from then are still performing in their 70s and 80s.
Next month I’ll see Elton John performing in Atlanta and in January — God willing — I’ll see Frankie Valli, who had his first hit record in 1962.
The year 1975 was the last time I had a black and white television and the first time I had a color TV.
Forty-seven years ago.
I doubt I could have even conceived of the year 2022 when I was 25 years old. For one thing, I was part of the “don’t trust anyone over 30” generation. For another, progress came in areas I ever imagined and lagged in the areas most of us expected.
As the late great Tim Wilson sang in 2010, “Where the f**k is my jetpack?”
Who would have figured that 47 years after 1975, we would be driving vehicles only marginally better than we were then. My Camaro only got 10-12 miles per gallon of gas that cost about half a buck per gallon, but my Hyundai Tucson only gets 22-23 miles a gallon.
What’s true, though, is that the two vehicles are basically the same.
Automobiles with internal combustion engines.
Where the f**k is my jetpack?
Sure, we have amazing smartphones and home computers, but I really wanted that jetpack.
But while I never came anywhere near the heights Peter Frampton did, when I was 25 most of what I would accomplish was still ahead of me.
I became editor of my college newspaper when I went back to school and I had nearly a 30-year career in journalism that had some wonderful moments. I won numerous awards in Colorado and California and I was a metro columnist — just about as good a newspaper job as there is — for five years.
I even had a feature done on me by a Los Angeles area PBS station.
And in 2002, I made it into Who’s Who in America.
But in some ways, the best was yet to come. The first marriage didn’t last, but in 10 weeks Nicole and I will celebrate our 30th wedding anniversary. Our two wonderful children are grown up and successful and we have six wonderful grandchildren.
And career-wise, my proudest moments have come in the last year with the publication of two novels. Neither one is headed for best-seller status, but unless you’re a writer, you have no idea what a wonderful feeling it is to hold a book that you wrote in your hands.
Not quite as good as holding my grandchildren, but still a wonderful feeling.
Best of all, it didn’t happen 47 years ago.
And I never did have to get the flying monkeys.