Megan Daum’s essay in yesterday’s Dallas Morning News spurred much discussion between me and Tom. The gist of the essay is that she’s sick to death of hearing about baby boomers and why don’t we shut up because nobody cares. It sounded a lot like a petulant teenager complaining about grandpa’s war stories. Bo-ring grandpa.

What struck me as moronic about the whine is that she’s not actually complaining about boomers. She’s complaining about marketing. I was born on the tail-end of the boom but I take no responsibility for such things as art house revivals of the Rosemary's Baby, innocuous if tiresome public radio features about Valerie Solanas' shooting of Andy Warhol, and, if there's a slow week, maybe even an E! special commemorating the marriage of Jackie Kennedy to Aristotle Onassis.

Daum needs to get out of the office sometimes and stop reading so many press releases—she’s starting to confuse media hype with reality. Of course media companies are going to try to make money out of whatever they can. That’s what they do. Not my fault, chickie.

If you want to wallow in your own pop culture, watch music awards shows. I have no idea who any of those young women in trashy clothes are. Don’t know, don’t care. I don’t blame you for that.

It’s all money and marketing, Megan. As soon as Gen X's anniversaries start rolling around, you’re welcome to throw yourself parades if you want. What big important moments would you suggest we celebrate? I’m sure there is someone ready to make money off it. Actually, I can't begin to articulate how little I care about Raiders of the Lost Ark but I heard an awful lot about it recently. I believe that's your fault?

Tom and I agreed that if she’d wanted a truly compelling angle, Daum would have wondered why classic rock has become such a music juggernaut. She touched on this then veered off into dopey, unfocused griping. No radio stations, no television commercials are safe from wheezin’ geezer rock—and I say this as a wheezin’ geezer. Every time we hear a boomer hit on TV, Tom wonders why they dig so far back. To whom are they selling? We keep hearing about that precious 18-35 demographic--so what's with the Bob Dylan and Beatles?

It could be that old rockers have finally decided that they’ve made their point about integrity but you can’t eat integrity for dinner so might as well sell out and cash in. Maybe the dinosaurs are cheaper than today’s music hitmakers so the advertisers are getting while the getting's good?

It could be that these songs became entrenched at a time when we were not overwhelmed by too much music—when songs had a chance to reach large audiences instead of being quick blips in an ever-increasing barrage of blips. It’s hard for anything to be heard among the racket these days and it’s also hard for artists to mature in our increasingly hit-obsessed media industry.

It could be that radio is full of oldies because younger peeps don’t listen to the radio—they’re too busy pirating music online.

Me, I still like listening to the radio, although I find less and less new music to buy that way, so layered is it under the oldies. (And if I have to listen to Heard It Through the Grapevine one more time, there’ll be hell to pay.)

Daum’s essay had my eyes rolling so hard I almost pulled a muscle. Who’s acting self-important? You want to be center of attention? Go ahead. We’re all waiting.

Labels: baby boom, media, movies, music, news, pop culture

I watched the movie Hair on AMC the other night. Some of you know that Hair holds a very special place in my heart. I was a stage door groupie for the Broadway show and even auditioned for it when I was, like, 12 years old. Yeah, really. No, I didn’t get a part.

Anyway, the movie wasn’t great and I haven’t seen it since it came out in 1979, but I was thrilled to see it listed the other night, when I was planning a solo late-night couch party. It was great fun.

Hair depicts the seismic societal changes of the late ‘60s but what the movie brought most strongly to my mind is the very distinct experience of growing up in the 1970s, when I went to see the show over and over, longing for the jubilance of the life of those who came just before me.

My cohort comprises the tail end of the baby boom (I was born in ’58, the boom is generally accepted as ’46-’64). Mine is one of those in-between generations, stuck in a muddy trench between the revolutionary idealism of the ‘60s and the brittle excess of the ‘80s. The 1970s were a dark time, when the drugs really kicked in and the pristine visions of the flower children started looking like snow in New York City, day two—gray with yellow spots and pocked with garbage. Maybe free sex and prodigious drugs weren't such a great idea after all. This was the decade when we figured that out.

A teenager through Watergate, I was acutely aware of it without entirely comprehending what was happening. I just breathed the sour air of corruption, mistrust and anger surrounding it. I didn’t know anyone who went to Vietnam (oddly, now that I think about it) but it flickers on the TV screens of my memories of those days. The nation was hit by inflation and the oil crisis and New York City was deep in the economic crapper.

Drugs and sex were seeping ever more deeply into popular culture but the sex was a lot less jubilant than it seems today. Nobody was used to sexual freedom yet and it all seemed a little bit tawdry--sex clubs and poppers and leather bars. I was too young to be a part of all that but I knew what was going on. (The famous sex club Plato’s Retreat was not very far from my home. Once, a man standing outside asked me if I would go in with him, no strings attached, because single men were not allowed in. I declined.)

Wedged between the nuclear family ‘50s and the loud reinvention of parenting that began in the ‘80s, many of my generation were untethered from their parents. I roamed New York freely, riding graffiti-covered subway cars; getting high with friends in the park, in friends' apartments while their parents were at work, in the staircases of apartment buildings if no place better could be found. I pretended to go to school in the morning but instead met a friend on a patch of grass near the West Side Highway, where we waited until our parents went to work so we could go back home.

That was the '70s NYC-style but I recognize the same style of sad and surly independence in the suburban teen lives depicted in the movie and book The Ice Storm. Tom, who was born in 1960, sees his Texas adolescence in Dazed and Confused—funnier by miles than the Ice Storm (which is devoid of humor) but not exactly depicting a generation on the fast track.

In some ways, the 1970s gave me a dark world view and chopped, diced and spliced my values into a strange amalgam of idealism and cynicism.

I don’t mistrust the government as deeply as some (perhaps the fact that Watergate was uncovered and punished inoculated me against total cynicism) but I believe it bears close watching and that voting is among our most significant responsibilities. I also believe that if newspapers go under, the great loss to society will be unbiased investigative reporting.

I think the era affected how I view sex and drugs. I’ve seen lots of casualties of drugs and so have less of a moral objection to them than a pragmatic one because they do some bad shit. I avoided the harder drugs many of my peers did. I never tripped, but I did do cocaine for a while. I don’t anymore because it killed my brother and I hold a grudge.

Coming of age while culture was in flux perhaps made me more broad minded, more flexible in my rules of morality (for better or worse), than those who came before or after. In general, I am forgiving of our darkest nature, tolerant of transgressions and raw in my assessment of human nature. I don’t think humans are bad. I just think we’re all a little fucked up. And that’s OK.

And, by the way, I miss the ‘70s desperately. Those are my good old days.

Labels: 1970s, baby boom, drugs, memoir, new york city, personal growth, sex