“Eighteen.” Vincent Furnier, aka Alice Cooper, was 23 when that song hit big in late 1970. It captures that messy threshold: no longer a kid, not yet a grown-up. The singer drifts between worlds, unsure who he is, unsure where he belongs. His body changes, his mind is hyped up, and the path forward is unclear.
At 35, Alice sobered up after surviving brutal bouts of addiction. The lyrics read like a prophecy: “Gotta get away, I gotta get out of this place, I’ll go runnin’ in outer space.” He was high, all right, but he turned it around. I wonder how many men still carry the same soundtrack at 45. By then, the body rebels, the promotion dies a slow, humiliating death, the replacement wife bores you, and the first one walks off with everything you built. Illusions shatter. It’s not just about eighteen. Every other age echoes the same uncertainty. But Rock-and-roll guys in makeup aren’t writing songs about it.
By 65, or maybe sooner, the body changes again. You chopped off the soul of your youth to survive cubicle hell, and now you drift, a rudderless ghost. No emails or meetings, and even the fake camaraderie is gone. Nothing is new. Life feels recycled. You may not have a soundtrack for 50, 60, or 80, but any random, depressing tune can be tuned to fit the emptiness.
I hope Alice Cooper makes it to 80. Eighty sounds hauntingly like eighteen. Don’t feel shame if existential dread greets you at every stage. You’re not alone.
Here’s a glimmer: even when the map is gone, the compass isn’t. Carve out a tiny ritual that anchors you. Do the morning walk, journal, stir up a single deliberate act of creation. It won’t fix the storm, but it anchors your mind. That’s enough to keep moving. Sometimes, that’s all you need. And maybe a set of headphones loud enough to hammer a rebellious soundtrack into your skull.
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