My Generation By Cleo       “I hope I die before I get old.” This was a popular sentiment (as so concisely expressed by the Who’s Pete Townsend) back in the “good old days” of the 1960s and 70s when there was a saying the in movement “we don’t trust anyone over thirty.” Except no one much died before they got old, occasional overdose notwithstanding. Nope, those wide-eyed idealists of the ‘60s got old: they had kids, bought SUVs, invested in the stock market, started IRAs, and paid off those thirty-year mortgages. So that’s our parents’ generation. Okay, not my parents; my mother spent the sixties looking eerily like Priscilla Presley.       When it comes right down to it, I’m not sure which disgusts me more: The baby boomers who promised to change the world and succeeded only in changing hairstyles before becoming an only slightly hipper and vaguely more liberated version of their parents. Or my generation. That promised nothing and delivered only conformity and indifference.       Just in case you’ve never noticed, I’m the least political member of the editorial staff here at the stall. Mostly it’s because I don’t give a flying fuck which person is elected to office. Because when you come right down to it, there’s precious little difference between democrats and republicans. Further, despite my love of underdogs all over the world, I just can’t see the point of voting for someone who, regardless of how correct his ideals, has a snowball’s chance in hell of winning an election. The last election I was really interested in was the election for sheriff in my hometown: Billy Rex v. Jim Bob. The names amused me, and I told all my friends.       So why this indifference? Because I find idealism exhausting. Effort futile. Passion pointless. When it all comes down to it, no letter I write to my congressman, no placard I carry, and no official I elect will change the world in any sort of positive and meaningful way. On the upside, I can vote on a new M&M color. I favor teal, but I think they should’ve left well enough alone after the addition of blue in place of tan.       Life is like that. Welcome to my generation. I think we have embraced the motto: “sell out early, it saves time.” One of my dorkier reading habits—the Atlantic—ran an article called “The Establishment Kid” last summer; this article was dedicated to uncovering all the deep dark secrets of a generation concerned solely with straight A’s, Ford Explorers, and inoffensive pop-rock. Fifteen pages later, I was ready to slit my wrists.       Recently I’ve realized the shift in my personal value system—the Cap’n’s brother calls it priorities; the Cap’n wonders what he’s lost in gaining them. Well, I can tell you what I lost somewhere between twelve and twenty. Here’s my own chronicle of selling out: However dubious the cause. I used to

be into animal rights; now I only refrain from eating meat because my last (accidental) meat consumption left me doubled over with stomach cramps for three days, and my roommate complained about…well, you can imagine. I used to really care about poverty, then I realized that poor people smell bad. World hunger used to be among my soapboxes; my main concern now is not the war against hunger but against cellulite. I also—though never willing to call myself a feminist—used to be concerned about women’s issues; mostly I refuse to use the word “cunt.” I also used to be really, really passionate about human rights, free speech, the plight of women in third world countries, and the worldwide AIDS epidemic. My attitude has somehow morphed into: Damn, that’s too bad. At least I write about these things for this obscure website no one much reads.       My really passionate phase coincided with my agnostic phase, so I’m afraid I’ve never really been into “setting the world on fire for Christ” or whatever cliché they’re using these days. But, God, when have I ever even tried to do that? Mostly I enjoy an intellectualized form of Christianity and a moderate dislike for organized religion. But, hell, the church itself isn’t exactly the antithesis of indifference these days, so I’m in good company. You know, a few praise and worship tunes that could easily be transformed into love songs if you replace “Jesus” with the less offensive” Shirley” or “Michael.” A nifty sermon illustration from Chicken Soup for the Soul rather than the more formidable bible. A reminder to give tithes and offerings—we gotta pay off that loan from the addition to the family life center. I think another likely candidate for the motto of my generation ought to be “God forbid we offend someone.”       The crazy thing is, I spend my whole life trying to convince people that I’m not one of this group of smarmy, indifferent group. Oh no. I’m different. I cut my own hair and refuse to pluck my eyebrows. I write bitter diatribes and pick fights with frat boys who litter. I mock pop psychiatry and feel good religion. I do not wear pastels. I do not read “I Kissed Dating Goodbye” or watch TRL. I have never seen an episode of Dawson’s Creek or Beverley Hills 90210. I have moral convictions for every occasions.       Maybe I’m fooling people; I hope so. But I’m not doing a damn thing. Not really. Doctor Phil and Oprah Winfrey do not wither under my criticism. Creed is not going to break up because of my scorn. Hell, they won’t even cease to be on VH1 all day long. Miss America is not suicidal through any of my doings. Once I gave some change to a homeless man. As far as I know, that’s really been my one contribution to humanity. If you don’t count this fine publication or all the people in whose faces I’ve screamed my opinions about bombing Afghanistan or the war on drugs.