The Kids are kind of messed up

Last month’s People magazine has, of course, the Reagans on its cover, discussing the HBO protective gov’t brouhaha and delicately mourning the Alzheimer’s that has crippled Ron and martyred Nancy for changing her life to care for him. ANYWAY, while this is sad and all, I’ve been reflecting on the “LEGACY” the Reagan presidency left us, which if you want to talk about crippling, let me count the ways.
This goes without saying. But for what it’s worth, here’s one side of the story: what’s happened to the kids who grew up in the ’80s who WERENT affected by Reagan’s education/mental health/welfare policies, at least directly. Their psychic fallout. Meet my friend “Todd,” who plays in an “extreme” post-punk band, wastes his sharp brain cells on cheap beer, and writes jibberish nihilistic philosophy while working at his office job (which he hates, of course). AKA post-Vice Magazine nihilism, which is laid out like so: “our problems are naught because nothing matters because DOOM IS NIGH, so NOW I WILL MAKE FUN OF YOU.” This is what happens when you spend your entire life believing the world (or your world) will soon be nuked—aggrandizing fears/problems that are nebulous, if somewhat legitimate. (FUCK THE ’80S.) Some kids I know, upper-middle-class ones, on the ass-end of Douglas “I’m sorry for referencing him” Coupland’s generational agoraphobia/nuclear anxiety (aka 26/27 year olds) are slouching towards gomorrah or like, building it up, reluctantly being shoved into adulthood, cringing, and trying to drink themselves back into the womb. (FYI, so I feel a little less like the high school confessional livejournal bloggers in the NYTimes magazine this week, I did confer with “Todd” and asked him if this was all okay. That said, I am always happy to be associated with high schoolers.) This is the outcry of a desperate man, who has no real hope because he’s never had to fight for anything because (as you will soon discover), he has a pot of gold waiting for him at the end of his alcoholic rainbow: TRUST FUND. The magic words. The logic is thus: smash all the guitars, destroy all the drums, blow out the speakers (because the catharsis of playing abrasive, extreme noise punk is the only Art thing that has the power to really move you—Jessica Hopper would probably call this “extrEMO”), drink the Club 21 down to its last Pabst keg and go to the Sandy Hut down the street and tap theirs, too, and take some photos with your videophone and make some prank calls and GET IT TOGETHER WHEN YOU TURN 35 and CAN COLLECT ON THAT SHIT.
Here is “Todd” capturing the slippery zeitgeist of his life. And it is bleak.
From: “Todd”
Date: Wed, 14 Jan 2004 16:39:33 -0500
To: ‘Julianne Shepherd’
Subject: Re: READ THIS NOW
js.
Portland is a concentration camp for drunk losers. Just trying to make it out partially alive.
L8r,
“Todd”
From: Julianne Shepherd [mailto:julianne@portlandmercury.com]
Sent: Wednesday, January 14, 2004 1:51 PM
To: “Todd”
Subject: Re: READ THIS NOW
Dude. What are you doing?!?!! It’s time to outline/power-point some possible solutions, real, tangible ones. Stop living the lie. Self-empowerment!
seriously,
js.
From: “Todd”
Date: Wed, 14 Jan 2004 17:24:37 -0500
To: ‘Julianne Shepherd’
Subject: RE: READ THIS NOW
Naw, check this out: Attempting to address a serious and possibly unsolvable problem will only serve to give it strength. Illuminating it will also cast light on other, more delicate issues, and will thus draw attention away from the “real” problem, which is both imagined and real at the same time. (!!!) The only reasonable method of dealing with anything like this (and feasible when you are aware of how dishonest with yourself you are. (like me)) is to carefully avoid self-confrontation and the possibility of self-realization at all costs. Instead, look deep into the carefully chosen world of hyper non-reality; the pointless trifles and meaningless pursuits that can fill up an entire day. (day, week, year, lifetime, etc..)I’m referring to the accepted activities of us and our peers. People that possess somewhat active brains, but whose minds are totally listless, whose spirits have been mysteriously crushed, and whose souls were cancelled a long time ago. This means alcohol, cocaine, shows, obsessing over the inner workings of a protracted and pointless social circle (a “scene” if you will), and even the enlightening yet ultimately useless art, literature, and music. Be sure to try and maintain this miserable trajectory as long you can, oblivious to the strength your own pain. It will all come crashing down on you eventually, but if you’re
like me and have a really rich family, the horror of your ultimate fate will be softened slightly by the prospect of inheritance.
Naw I’m just joking again. Really my life is great. I just bought the
Bush Tetras vinyl re-issue at Jackpot and I can’t wait for the Get Hustle show this weekend. We should party sometime.
l8r,
“Todd”
——
AS AN ASIDE, the intro on the new SECRET MOMMY is called “AOL KEYWORD: PARTY,” and sounds like farting.