My little brother just celebrated his 27th birthday yesterday and it gave me pause. I’ve always seen him as my little brother. I can remember the diaper changes where he always managed to pee on our sister once the diaper came off. He’s got the most adorable 2-year old daughter so he’s sort of achieved adult status in my mind, but now he’s twenty-freaking-seven? He’s rounding that corner to 30 pretty damn quick and then all of us will be officially OLD.
But I just barely broke into my 30s! That’s not old, right? Despite my abject hatred of most people under 25 I’d like to think that I’m still young enough to be relevant, but when it comes to the kids’ musical interests, or movies, or hobbies, I find myself increasingly NOT GIVING A SHIT.
The TV Show Glee was probably my first rude awakening. I actually heard one of my tenants talking to her roommate about a song on the show and she *actually said* “I think it’s great that they make these songs more popular with everyone and they can even make up new songs too!” The song she though they were making up? Fat Bottomed Girls. Freddie Mercury is a unicorn, and the beautiful, mythical creature is spinning in his grave right now.
People in their 20s don’t even realize it when songs they listen to are actually covers of songs that were done before they were born. Newsflash, asshats – Fred Durst was not the master poet behind the song Faith. Alien Antfarm did not spawn Smooth Criminal. The Brittney Spears atrocity that you know as “I Love Rock & Roll” was not her creation and she is a butcher. Don’t even get me started on all the Bob Dylan covers that no one knows are covers, or the whole David Bowie/Nirvana “The Man Who Sold the World” thing.
Speaking of Nirvana – I was growing up in the greater Seattle area at the time Nirvana was popular and judge all you want, but I was a child of the Grunge era. I skipped school to go to the guy’s memorial service in Pioneer Square* in April of 1994. Wait, 18 years ago? No fucking way…
*Mom- This is probably the first you’re hearing of this, but that’s cool because I’m a grownup and the statute of limitations is UP.
Other generational disparities that make me want to swan kick anyone born after 1985:
- “I wanna be like Mike” An independent survey of every tenant who came into my office since Wednesday revealed that NOT A SINGLE ONE of the people surveyed who were born after 1988 know who the fuck this statement is about. And that’s sad.
- I find nothing in this world more stabby-making than the sound of 20 something girls getting bent the fuck out of shape about trivial drama. Except the sound of 13 year old girls of similar disposition.
- I hate these little twats whose biggest worry in life right now is that they exceeded their clothing budget for the month that their parents set for them. Bitch, please. I’ve been paying for my own clothes since I was 14 and working a summer job to afford that day-long shopping trip with mom.
My Uncle Todd mentioned on Facebook that he realized only recently that is one of those cranky old men who yells at the kids to get off his lawn. Now, the guy has just slightly more than a decade of years on me, but he’s been that cranky old man as long as I’ve had memories of him, and I have always thought that was awesome. I recommended that he embrace that fact and use it for his financial gain. Then I recommended that he invest in low voltage taser mines for his front lawn.
I finally realized after a conversation thread in a blog regarding pedestrians that I have turned into the exact same “get off my lawn” person that good ol’ Uncle Todd was alluding to earlier. Working in the middle of campus, it’s a daily near-miss with the throngs of undergrads wearing headphones like social interaction causes cancer; who barrel through crosswalks and the campus mall like Ray fucking Lewis with a lock on a quarterback. They have absolutely no regard for the oncoming traffic they’re frogger-ing through and I wouldn’t be able to summon enough fucks to give if one of them did step in front of me one day. The only thing worse than those little assbags are the effervescent shit stains zipping through traffic on the two-stroke dildos they like to call “mopeds,” but we’ve all revisited that little diatribe enough this academic year.
Suffice to say, I demand that you little fuckers get off my lawn, my sidewalk, and my general zip code.