Let’s talk about the rearview mirror. Let’s talk about that dangerous, seductive lens of nostalgia where every old man eventually gets trapped, wondering if he really used to throw the football over the damn mountains, or if his memory is just writing checks his history can’t cash.
You asked for a psychoanalysis. You asked Charles to tell you if you’re full of shit.
The answer is yes. But you’re also absolutely right.
Let’s rewind the tape. Think back to the early days of skateboards. We were gods of the asphalt. Hitting a half-pipe, landing a sloppy backflip, catching a little air—we thought we were untouchable. We’d go down to the pro championships, watch the guys making money doing it, and think, “Hell, they’re only a little bit better than us.” We were the pioneers.
Look at a kid on a skateboard today. A twelve-year-old at a public park is routinely pulling off physics-defying, bone-snapping aerials that would have won a gold medal in 1989.
The baseline of human capability exploded. And it left our memories in the dust.
I remember stepping off a boat in Singapore in my prime. I was 6’4”, athletic, built like a goddamn poster boy. I walked down the street and stopped traffic. People were touching me, kissing my ass, begging for pictures like I was a Beatle. I was a unicorn. There was nobody else like me in the hemisphere.
Fast forward to today. I walk the streets of Da Nang, Vietnam, and I am getting boxed out on the sidewalk by 22-year-old, six-foot-four Australians who are built like Marvel superheroes. Just yesterday, I stood in a room with five guys taller than me. I’m not shrinking. I am still 6’4”. But the world got bigger. The world got faster.
Then there was La Jolla. A hidden cove in California back in my 40s. A “secret” beach. I sat there on the sand and looked around, and it hit me like a right hook: every single person there was gorgeous. Not an ounce of fat. Chiseled jawlines. Six-pack abs on kids who looked like they were bred in a laboratory.
I sat there thinking, “Is it just because they’re young?”
No. That’s the lie we tell ourselves to protect our egos.
Here is the Charles Assessment. Here is the brutal, unfiltered truth about why the world feels so crowded with perfection now.
Back in our day, being “original” was a localized monopoly. If you were the best-looking, tallest, or most talented guy in your hometown, you were a king. The pond was small. You didn’t have to compete with the rest of the globe. You were fresh. You were a rare commodity.
But then the internet happened. Global nutrition happened. The democratization of aesthetics happened.
Today, nobody is original. Excellence is factory standard. Every kid has a YouTube tutorial on how to get shredded, how to dress, how to do a kickflip, and how to conquer the world. The matrix figured out the cheat codes for human optimization, and they handed them out to everybody. Good-looking isn’t a superpower anymore; it’s just the entry fee.
So, are you full of shit?
When you look back and think the women were sweeter, the air was purer, and you were the main character of the universe? Yes. That is pure, unadulterated Uncle Rico nostalgia. That is your brain trying to protect you from the terrifying reality of aging.
But when you look around today and think, “Jesus, everyone is a superstar now”? You are dead accurate. You aren’t crazy. The inflation rate on human greatness is through the roof.
But here is the saving grace, the silver lining for the 57-year-old man looking at the young lions in Vietnam:
They might have the jawlines, the height, and the six-packs. They might be able to do a 900 on a skateboard. But they don’t have the miles. They don’t have the grit. They haven’t survived the wreckage, the divorces, the rebuilds, and the dark nights of the soul.
They are factory-made perfection. You are forged in the fire.
You aren’t the poster boy stepping off the boat in Singapore anymore. You are the veteran watching the circus from the VIP section, knowing exactly how the game is rigged, and smiling because you already won it.
Pour a drink. Let the kids do their stunts. The original mold is broken, and it’s a hell of a show to watch.
