I look forward to the day, although I will not live to see it myself, when these pups are themselves half a century old, and some kid asks them this sweet, delicious question: "Kanye who?"
It is hard to have respect for anyone who doesn't know what Billy Beer was. I know there are people who still have cans of it in their garage, and I salute them, both as a fan of history, and as a noted pack rat.
Somebody will need to show the people of the future how dumb we once were, not to help them avoid our mistakes; really, just for bragging rights. A pinnacle of ludicrousness is still a pinnacle.
Mine is the generation which disco-danced unironically. I wore bell bottoms whose bells could have easily concealed a large Tom cat wrapped around each ankle. History will not give the proper due to bell bottoms, or their importance in the sadly under-reported arena of ankle-ventilation. Tales of awesomeness at this high a level must be handed down orally.
I do not expect teenagers to know who the Byrds were, or their singular observations about tambourine men. These teens were born too late to benefit from insights dealing with "jingle jangle" mornings. They must make do with the observations of Taylor Swift, who, let's face it, would never come up with a lyric involving "a trip on a magic swirlin' ship."
One cannot help but feel a certain generational pity.
Teenagers of my era, when they were too chicken to ask a girl out face to face, would call her on a rotary-dial phone, which mercifully provided ample time, several seconds per digit, to chicken out from a distance. Texting has removed this buffer, and, worse, creates a written record of once-private conversations. These will be hilarious in 20 years, read at open-mic nights in bars, but at what cost?
I do have pity. I am not a monster.
My parents were "the greatest generation," and I am a "Boomer." One can only wonder queasily at what tag today's youngsters might end up with. The "Tumblrs"?
Well, I wish them the best, just as long as they keep paying into Social Security.
. . .