Boomp. Boomp. Boomp.

Boomp. Boomp. Boomp.

What is it? What could it be?

Boomp. Boomp. Boomp

It’s getting louder. It’s getting closer.

BOOMP. BOOMP. BOOMP.

Could it be one of those big ol’ dinosaurs from Jurassic Park pounding its way through town to deposit more money into Steven Spielberg’s bank account?

BOOMP! BOOMP! BOOMP!

Perhaps it’s the Jolly Green Giant delivering frozen peas to the Food Lion.

BOOMP!! BOOMP!! BOOMP!!

And then it comes into view. There it is. Terror fills your heart and rattles your eardrums. Oh, the horror.

It’s not a prehistoric being or an oversized green guy; it’s just another one of our fine youths driving by in his $450 vehicle equipped with a $4,500 stereo system.

Boomp. Boomp. Boomp.

Why must teenagers (and even some early 20-somethin’ers) drive their vehicles with their music turned up so loud? And why are they so convinced that the inhabitants of bordering states want to hear the music they’ve tuned into?

We adults are constantly being criticized by all-knowing kids making guest appearances on Oprah and Montell for not communicating with today’s youth. Excuse me, but I think the breakdown in the lines of communication have risen not from the fact that we adults don’t want to talk with our kids, it stems from them not being able to hear a darned thing we say because they’ve all gone deaf listening to their mega-decibel car radios.

By the time these kids reach retirement age, our Medicare funds and Social Security system will be defunct; not because Washington, D.C., has cut the benefits to the bare bones, but because so much funding will have been spent on ear doctor visits and hearing aids. If you are looking to make a fortune in the stock market, you might want to consider buying a few shares of Miracle Ear stock. Feel free to pass this investment tip onto your children, but I doubt they’ll be able to hear you.

Each generation seems to come up with a form of music that will drive the older generation out of their minds. When my parents were young, it was rock and roll that created the chasm in the generation gap. “Devil’s music” as so many church choir members called it.

When I was growing up, southern rock, punk, and disco made so many parents purposely forget to pay the electric bill so their children’s stereos would cease to produce that ungodly racket.

Personally, I was determined that when I was an adult, I would like whatever the teens of the day were listening to. I was going to be a cool adult. And then they came up with rap music and alternative rock and my coolness vanished as quickly as 8-track tapes and vinyl albums. Next came groups like Marilyn Manson who sings about, well, I’m not sure. I can’t understand a word they say. I don’t even think their singing at all. They are just sort of screaming obscenities and playing a bunch of noisy instruments. It’s obvious they spent too much on hearing aids and not enough on guitar lessons.

Maybe I’m just not playing this stuff loud enough to truly appreciate its musical quality. I’m thinking I need to equip my middle-aged vehicle with tinted windows, mighty woofers and dynamic decibel delivery so it will boomp with the ultimate boompibility. Then I, too, could learn to appreciate the value of great modern songsters associate with groups with pleasant sounding names as Nine Inch Nails, Megadeath, Hole and Alice in Chains.

Really, boys and girls, I’m trying to be cool—or whatever hip phrase you might be using this year to describe older people who understand where today’s kids are coming from. Who knows, maybe I could learn to like these groups if I could hear more than the bass beat backlash from your cars. Maybe if you parked your awesome rods about a mile from my front porch I just might be able to hear the lyrics above the bass and be more inclined to offer you a little more praise for your choice of music.

I know that I am just one individual who has inevitably become an adult and who has inevitably learned to dislike the tunes to which the younger generation is listening. But if you are also one of these squares who is forced to clamp your hands over your ears as these reverberating vehicles move slowly by your residence, don’t despair. Revenge is right around the corner.

Before they know it, these narrow-minded youths will soon discover that they will be forced to step out of their decibel-driven four-wheeled night clubs to earn a living. They will then have to trade in their acoustic enhanced modes of transportation for a more sensible station wagon fashioned with a baby car seat and plenty of room for weekly groceries.

Then, years from now when they’re trying to help their kids with a social studies project or cleaning out the gutters or any other “dumb stuff” that we “old people” do now, they’ll be disturbed by a most disturbing noise.

Boomp. Boomp.

What is it?

BOOMP. BOOMP.

Could it be one of those big ol’ dinosaurs from “Jurassic Park VII” pounding its way through town to deposit more money into Steven Spielberg Jr’s bank account?

BOOMP! BOOMP!

And then they go out on the porch. Terror fills their heart and rattles their eardrums. Oh, the horror.

Don’t worry. It’s just me driving by on my way to the post office to pick up my retirement check in my antique Taurus with the volume knob on the car radio turned up as loud as it will go. The reverberations of southern rock, punk and disco from my speakers shatter the glass of iced tea he is holding, gives his wife a migraine, and wakes the baby that had just been put down for a nap. With his hands clamped over his ears, he seems to be shouting obscenities at me and protesting my loud tunes.

“Hey, dude,” I shout with my thinning gray hair blowing in the breeze. “Get with it. Loud is where it’s at. Peace, man, but no quiet. Party on.”

Boomp ... Boomp ... Boomp ...