Summer, 2019, before the pandemic.

I was working in a “open plan” office, albeit a very pleasant one in downtown Denver.

One of my co-workers went by “Maldo”, late 20s, a decent, reliable guy who rode a motorized skateboard to work. He had the desk immediately in front of me.

One day he turned around and asked me, “Did you go to Woodstock?”

No, dude, I was born in 1961. I was 8 years old when the original Woodstock happened.

Unfortunately, this wasn’t a “kids these days!” moment, it was more me realizing that the past tends to get compressed, even within my own living memory. As another example, one of my kids refers to all rock-n-roll as “80s music”, regardless of the sub-genre or date of release.