Welcome to the gerontocratic nightmare (JIM WATSON/AFP via Getty Images)

You don’t have to be old to be confused. Years ago, when I was still a walk-over-hot-coals BBC reporter — or so I thought — I finished an interview, made a dash for the exit, and ended up in a walk-in closet. The closet of legendary news anchor Walter Cronkite.
I was in the penthouse suite he was given for life at the top of the CBS building in Manhattan. Feeling foolish, I stumbled around among the musty suits that so many Americans had once found so reassuring, eventually finding the handle in the dark, and stepped back out into the carpeted room I had recently, with such vigour and aplomb, vacated.
I needn’t have worried. The old boy had fallen asleep.
America is status conscious. If you make it to the top, you are generally allowed to stay there. A suite of rooms can be found. A private office. A Chevrolet Suburban to take you home at night. Nothing to do but plenty of “staffers” to help you do it. Respect: a glow that long outlasts the fire.
Look at the world of American political podcasting. Yes, there are some kids at it, but James Carville and Al Hunt? 158 years on this planet between them and both gurus to the Democratic mainstream.
Perhaps it’s understandable that a young nation, comprised of multiple generations of strangers, brought together and kept together through many acts of will, would cling to its past. They must build something that has not previously existed. They need foundations. They need shoulders to climb on. And America is a young nation in two senses: young as a construct but young too at the individual level; the median age is still well under 40. It has felt — at least until recently — as if there were time and space for all.
Perhaps this generation’s inability to chuck out their elders is down to the courtliness of America; even in the age of Trump, there is an elegant formality that just about holds the place together. But it is not cost-free, this veneration of the venerable. The problem is that not all has-beens have gone to that penthouse of irrelevance. Sure, Walter Cronkite retired in a dignified way, handing the baton on to Dan Rather before riding the elevator to the top floor. But for every oldie sequestered in a mahogany faux-situation room, there are dozens still in the actual situation room, and often fast asleep.
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