It's Just Us

Much has been said, and will undoubtedly continue to be said, about differences between generations. So far as I’ve been able to see, every generation thinks theirs is the best. They will admit that the one preceding theirs had it rougher and so perhaps might have been at least partially okay, but any generation after their own is spoiled rotten and the absolute pits.

Here is how it usually seems to play out:

Music: My music was great, my parent’s music goofy but maybe some okay, my kid’s music sounds like rattlesnakes giving birth

Clothes: My clothes were fun and stylish, my parent’s clothes are great for costumes, my kids clothes aren’t worth using for paint rags…and they cost too much

Cars: My cars were magnificent machines: “They don’t build ‘em like that anymore!” My parents cars are fun to tear up and make dune buggies from, my kids cars are just little pocket rockets that all look the same

Books: My books are artistic works of literary magnificence. My parents books were okay (at least most of them), my kids books are…what books?

Surfboards, skateboards, skis: My surfboards, skateboards, and skis were lovingly made by a human being who spent hours on them and made them perfect! My parents surfboards, skateboards (nah, my parents didn’t skateboard), and skis were okay, and my kids surfboards, skateboards and skis are just a bunch of overpriced, factory-made by the millions pieces of absolute junk

Guitars: My guitars were unparalleled instruments of musical creation. My parent’s instruments might be okay in a retro piece, my kids instruments are useless pieces of over-computerized, stamped-out, jokes

Television: My television shows were… well, okay mostly not worth watching. My parents TV shows were worth even less and my kid’s shows are just more junk. Now let me also say that every generation of TV viewers has their good and bad shows. Also, TV programs when you watch them new seem great and in rerun less so and reruns of the reruns years later even much, much less so. So this category might be a tie. Suffice it to say that we all watch junk with the occasional gem tossed in and leave it at that

Films: My films were sometimes great, my parent’s films were sometimes great, and my kid’s films are sometimes great. My father would not have agreed with this analysis. As far as he was concerned, any film that was made after Audrey Hepburn appeared with elbow-length gloves is trash. But he’s wrong; in fact, everyone is wrong. The best film ever made is from my generation: “It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World” is the single best film ever made. Period. End of argument. So there.

Well okay, I might be wrong about the film. It is hackneyed, contrived, full of stereotypes, over-wrought, over-energized, and over-played. Nonetheless, it can be hysterical, it is full of great actors giving good performances, the writing is spot-on and almost flawless, and you can’t help but be absorbed in it. So maybe I am right.

My generational differences

The differences between my son’s generation and mine hit me full-on a few days ago. We were sitting around the table having dinner and doing our evening check-ins and high and lows (everyone discuses a high point and a low point of their day). During this my son Ryan happened to mention that he needed a new flash drive for class. I said okay we can get one.

“When do you need it?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yeah.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this when I picked you up from school / when we were out running around getting your glasses / when we picked up your sister / when we weren’t having dinner??????”

“I forgot,” he answered with the usual kid answer. I did the usual dad growl under my breath and wondered where I had left the Rolaids.

I drove to Best Buy down the hill to get a flash drive. It was during this drive that I happened to remember a very similar scene from years ago. Instead of Ryan, however, it was me at dinner with my parents and sister and instead of a flash drive it was poster board for a school project the next day.

At the time we lived in a town without an Office Depot or any other office supply store for that matter. The only place to get poster board, and the only place open was a drug store (which luckily did have poster board). I still remember the drive there with my father saying to me essentially the same things I said to Ryan (with the added bonus of my father swearing a blue streak; there’s nothing like the swearing of a former sailor when he gets wound up). But that was then. Now, we’re in the car.

Ryan may someday in the future be out with a child during an evening seeking something or other and during that run he may remember the night he and I went after a flash drive. I hope so; it may make him a little less annoyed and look at his own child with enlightened eyes as I looked at Ryan. Enlightened, and with more than a little love.