Remember when you were young ...

Chuck and I were plodding down a dark avenue tonight. He was carrying 5 pounds of garlic in a paper bag, and I was internally congratulating myself on having set a precedent early in our relationship that I don't like to carry things.

Four young dudes bounced out of a sedan. Festive. Jocular.

"Migrating?" one of the dudes asked us.
The brown bag suggested a makeshift beer cooler, I'm assuming. Saturday night. Rental neighborhood. Walking.
"Where you migrating?" he asked.
This must be a party synonym on post-2007 SATs.

By then we were close enough to the dudes that they could tell we weren't their kind. Namely, neither of us had the whacked and slurry look that comes from mixing energy drinks with booze. No, they could tell we were older folks.

Another guy in the group took that moment to act as a translator. To bridge the gap between our generations. The proverbial "Hola como estas?" and a hand shake to show a friendliness between our cultures.

He simply yelled "PINK FLOYD!"

I was still cackling a half a block later when Chuck said under his breath: "We're not that old."