I don't miss what I missed

My life has been a constant chorus of, “You missed out.” In practically every situation I’ve ever been in, someone who preceded me is there to wistfully reminisce about the glory days that are now over. Apparently, I was born too late to experience anything at its peak. If they’re to be believed, of course.

Much of that is human nature. People tend to lock in their barometers in life at a young age, and spend their later years comparing reality harshly against the nostalgic haze of the past. So it’s no shock that as people get older, they tend to think everything’s going to hell.

Even accounting for that, though — and it pains me to do this — I have to indulge the baby boomers in one respect: they win pop culture. Some of the best music, TV shows and movies ever made came out during the peak years of that generation’s influence. People born in the 1990s are intimately familiar with songs from the 1960s to the 1980s, whereas they probably know less about stuff from their own formative decade.

Why is it painful to admit that? Because those who lived through the sixties are often gratingly righteous about it. Vietnam, civil rights, Woodstock, the Beatles — that’s when a generation made a difference, man! You kids these days, you just don’t know! You’re obsessed with Justin Bieber and the Kardashians. We never had trash like that growing up! And your generation will never know the frustration of prejudice and racial tension, or of fighting a war you can’t win.

OK, maybe that’s overkill. But not by much.

My point is that for all their ignorance of the generation gap (itself ironic), boomers really can claim cultural victories. Part of that is the quality of the material. But another factor is theirs, possibly for all time.

Monoculture.

I first learned of this word in this AV Club blog from 2009, written shortly after the death of Michael Jackson. Monoculture is the (much-debated) idea that the limitations of technology meant we shared more collective experiences in the past. Those who adhere to this notion argue that there can’t be a Michael Jackson anymore, because audiences are too fragmented to mold a star with such universal appeal.

I think that’s mostly true. Not necessarily because tastes have changed, but because anyone even approaching an MJ-level of stardom today gets torn down long before they have a chance to build their reputations. That’s due in part to the Internet, which allows real-time ridicule. It also allows for people to indulge more niche tastes not available in the days when entertainment was confined to certain acts and certain hours.

It’s those conditions that led to the creation of Saturday Night Live, one of the most oft-cited examples of boomer-era genius. People raised on the original Not Ready for Prime Time Players will insist that the show was unadulterated gold then and is a pale imitator these days.

Having seen the first few episodes of SNL, I can’t say they’re objectively better than the most recent season finale. But I can see how the show was such an unexpected and mind-blowing presence on Saturday nights in 1975. Indeed, I remember how fresh and new it seemed when I was 6, staying up that late for the first time and feeling loopy (this explains why I’m nostalgic for the 1985-86 season, widely considered one of the worst ever). It’s the nature of discovery in a more limited age.

In the 1980s, let alone the 1960s and 1970s, it was still a big deal to have more than a few fuzzy channels on TV. Radio was less corporate, and music was a much bigger force in shaping the cultural conversation. The Internet was still the province of the Department of Defense. That, combined with a pop cultural past bereft of equivalent rock-and-roll revolutions, the baby boomer era was a perfect storm of creativity and relevance that still resonates today. And, for the most part, I missed it.

I also don’t miss the fashion, the awful cars, Reaganism, open prejudice and the copious mountains of drugs. And I like being able to publish my writing to where anyone in the world can see it anytime, even if it means I’m a molecule in the Pacific Ocean.

Hopefully, future generations will find what I wrote and see for themselves how much they missed. Or, more accurately, how little.

Everything wrong is right now

When I first heard about the word "literally" being redefined to include its popular-yet-wrong usage, I thought it was one of those Internet jokes. But apparently this is actually happening. "Literally" can now officially mean "figuratively," which is literally the opposite of figuratively. 

(OK, every article in the world writing about this is making "literally" jokes to figurative death. I promise not to from here on out. Maybe.)

Throughout the history of the English language, words have occasionally assumed meanings that they shouldn't have, but incorrect popular usage won out. To paraphrase George Carlin, it's called second-usage because it's NOT THE FIRST! But this may be the first time a word has been given its polar opposite as a meaning, and definitely the first time in the Internet age.

I'm less concerned about what this means for a single word than its broader national implication. We live in an age where anyone who refuses to accept reality can adopt an entirely different one and — by watching the right stations, listening to the right radio stations, surfing the right websites and immersing themselves in niche pop culture — never have it challenged. Not agreeing on the facts is bad enough when we generally agree on the definitions of words. I can't imagine how much worse it's going to get now that wrong can become right in the dictionary (literally). You thought protest signs were bad before?

Flubber bean bumpers!

Your satire is flat

From Wikipedia: 

Satire is a genre of literature, and sometimes graphic and performing arts, in which vices, follies, abuses, and shortcomings are held up to ridicule, ideally with the intent of shaming individuals, and society itself, into improvement. Although satire is usually meant to be funny, its greater purpose is often constructive social criticism, using wit as a weapon and as a tool to draw attention to both particular and wider issues in society.

I share this today because people are increasingly using the words "satire" and "humor" interchangeably. But they're two different things.

A rodeo clown wearing an Obama mask is not an example of satire. It might pass as a joke if your sense of humor sucks, but it isn't satire. Satire skewers. A rodeo clown wearing a George W. Bush mask might be satire, because Bush had a reputation as a cowboy (and as a clown). But any supposed satirical subtext of Obama as a rodeo clown is like making fun of Ben Affleck for the holes in his hands. 

(Wait. Scratch that. I can think of one way Obama as a rodeo clown is satirical. Rodeo clowns distract rowdy bulls. That's kind of what Obama's doing, isn't it? Brilliant! The clown is actually an Obama supporter! Who knew?)

To use another example, if someone satirized Sarah Palin for being overly pretentious, that would also be a fail. Not that I see anyone doing that.

Satire is best described as thinking person's comedy. So if you find yourself trying to hide behind the term, that's what you need to do before you speak. Think.

Dear teenagers,

This kills me to write. 

At 33, I'm at an age where people vary widely in how they behave. Some enthusiastically embrace adulthood (by which I mean they become boring and start complaining about old-people stuff) and others do their best to stay youthful (by which I mean they act as if they're still young, but still deal with old-people stuff). I like to think I'm in the latter category (hell, I'm rarely mistaken for older than 25).

However.

Yesterday, after a week of waiting, I finally moved into my new apartment. I decided to grab lunch at a nearby franchise. What I didn't know was that 1) yesterday was the first day of school in Reno and 2) a million teenagers live in my neighborhood. Those bads were mine.

When I walked in, four teenage girls and their guy friend stood in front of me. No problem. The problem began when what must have been 49 other teens marched in all at the same time. Whenever that happens (and let's lump in any big group in this), there's going to be lots of happy energy. I get that. I bask in it. I encourage it.

However. 

You still have to stand in line. It's cool if you see a friend in front of me and hug and catch up, but it's not a license to cut. It's also — if I can emphasize this — NOT A LICENSE TO NEARLY KNOCK ME (or anyone) OVER.

Granted, I've tried to be conscious of my surroundings wherever I go. I say try, because sometimes it takes effort. Much of that teen energy never left me. And I'm awkward to boot. But whenever I'm a situation that brings to mind human dominoes, I usually manage to channel it.

Teenagers, you're all right. I like you. While I believe you are being utterly screwed by No Child Left Behind, I otherwise think you're OK. I roll my eyes at people who say you're the worst generation ever (every older generation says that, by the way, and not all of them are that great). The generation gap is always a case of people misremembering the past. In that regard, you're good and I can't wait for you to take the reins. It's your life; never let anyone tell you not to color outside the lines. 

But when there is a line, don't make a flash mob of it.

Sincerely,

Grandpa

Cc: My bad back

About as dum as it gets

This is a real graphic currently making the rounds on Twitter. I wanted to title this entry, "What is Prince, chopped liver?" But it seemed wrong to dispel a graphic before you've had a chance to even see it. I wanted to have some fun with it first. And I will, even though my work here is done on account of the fact that PRINCE TOTALLY HAS HIS OWN SYMBOL. Take that, Hitler/Obama!

And ... er ...

I'm sure there are others too. Like the one my best friend in high school always drew with his signature, and the one I had when I was 11. Et cetera. Et cetera.

Has my point been pointed enough? Good. I'm going to the beach.

Shocking football news of the day

Wes Welker says Bill Belichick "kind of hard" to work with recently

Filtering everything out of this involving the usual trappings of pro football, media sensationalism and the complete lack of surprise here, I still have something to say about this.

I've reiterated more times than I can count that Bill Belichick is the Dick Cheney of the NFL — terse, secretive, standoffish and with just enough success to justify both traits in many people's minds. Unlike with Cheney, though, even Belichick's biggest haters generally agree on his success as a coach (which, even accounting for Spygate, is extensive). He's not my favorite personality type or coaching type, but he is who he is and it works for him.

It's not particularly newsworthy that a former player said his relationship with Belichick grew rocky over time. Again, that's football and that's Belichick. It's interesting to hear Welker's take on it, but it's hardly headline material.

But it does bother me to read some of the reaction to it. Every comment thread I've read had at least one comment that said something like (I'm paraphrasing), "If Welker would buck up and grow a pair, maybe he wouldn't get his widdle feelings hurt." Others called Wes a pussy and other epithets that are epithets if you're sexist.

That is inexcusable. 

As I said, I'm no fan of the overly macho, stoic, growly attitude that defines Belichick; I go out of my way to avoid people with those personality traits whenever I can. But I doubt even he would condone such bully bluster from people. Part of it is the anonymity of the Internet, but I've also encountered plenty of people who are outwardly that way. I guess it's their attempt to emulate the Belichick attitude, and it's a pathetic attempt. They should know the coach would probably not be proud.

If his interest waned on one of the best receivers in the game, what could he possibly think of those armchair quarterbacks?

Knowing him, it's probably not much. I don't either.

Would you try it?

I had a dream last night that I visited my childhood supermarket for the first time in years. The deli was now selling McGibboney Turkey — shaved slices of spicy turkey crusted with peppermint. Apparently I had always asked for that when I shopped there in the past. I told the girl, "Of COURSE I would like something like that." I kind of want to try that now. But not really.

Also in the dream, I had to drive my sister to Washington, D.C. from Lafayette and get back to Reno in time to go to work at 2 p.m. Despite a valiant effort, I find myself back in Reno at 1:30 — not enough time to get ready for work. Mission aborted.

My dreams would make terrible action movies.