Handle With Care...

A User's Guide for the Future, (I swear, I'm Not a Political Writer).

It’s About Time. . .

It’s taken me a lot of years . . . I’ll be 50 in a few short months . . . to really begin understanding myself. I’ve always said I’m a late bloomer. Maybe that’s just a nice way of saying “slow learner?” What’cha gonna do? It is what it is.

I appreciate my new found ability to reflect critically, but not negatively, on my self. I suppose it’s possible I’ve just reached an age where such things are feasible. If that’s the case, I wish I’d known about it sooner. I might’ve enjoyed the ride a little more, knowing the stop was just around the corner.

It’s occurred to me though that while age is perhaps a necessary condition for what I’ve stumbled upon, it’s clearly not a sufficient one. There are plenty of self-hating, unreflective, and oblivious people of all ages, including old people like me. Which got me thinking about this idea that Generation X, my peeps, delivered Trump the White House.

Now, if you think for one second I’m going to sit here and tell you how this less than enlightened contingent of 44-59 year olds is guilty of this purported “crime,” then chances are you’re part of the problem. It’s this kind of finger pointing which got us here in the first place, and while I can’t undo this kind of “group think,” I can point out the obvious. It doesn’t make sense to blame a group, or a ready-to-hand grand narrative concept, like racism, sexism, misogyny, the patriarchy, or capitalism, when there was such a significant “right” deviation across the board.

But, I agree, there is something going on here, something worth thinking about, and dare I say, even learn from.

For shits and giggles, let’s assume Generation X is responsible for making 45 the new 47. After all, Trump did perform better with this demographic than any other. And, let’s also suppose this is something we’d prefer to prevent happening again. If so, then we should probably figure out what actually happened. Why’d all these Gen Xers vote for the second coming?

I’ve got a theory.

The Other Day. . .

I was sitting outside with S. S is an old friend of my wife’s from college. Since moving upstate, they’ve reconnected and our families have become close. S’s daughter is my son’s bestie. Apparently they’ve even had their first conversations about looking at each other’s private parts, as 4 and 5 year olds are wont to do.

While F was off making sure everyone was wearing clothes in P’s (literal) playhouse, S and I chatted about the future. With the election looming, there was a tension in the air. S, having recently given birth to a new baby, shared some of her fears for “our” kids.

But then she shifted gears, and said that she’d spoken with an astrologer, and that the astrologer had told her not to worry too much about the world we’re leaving to our kids. She said the souls arriving on Earth at this time are perfectly situated and equipped to deal with what’s to come. And that in fact, this is true for each generation. We’re all born at the right time, or at least, born equipped to deal with our time.

I liked the idea. I don’t know if it’s true, but sometimes you hear something and it just lands right.

S said it made her feel better and I agreed. I thanked her, but then I, kind of/sort of half joking, said, “If that’s true though, then what’s the deal with Gen X?” We both laughed, but I said, “No, seriously. What the fuck?”

Gabba Gabba Hey. . .

As a dyed in the wool Millennial S shrugged and said she didn’t know. I didn’t either, but I ventured a couple of haphazard guesses mostly about surviving a range of life threatening situations from general neglect all the way up to, and including, playgrounds of death, and/or adorning the side of milk cartons.

Once I started, I couldn’t stop. I floated the possibility that we came to provide an audience for John Hughes’ movies, but that felt a bit too chicken vs egg. Then I wondered if perhaps “mall culture” was a necessary step in the spiritual evolution of humanity. If so, we nailed that. But that felt a little too ethnocentric.

I’d resigned myself to never figuring it out, but I’m happy to report, thanks in no small part to the events of last week, and another question posed to me on the eve of the election, that I’ve found the answer.

We were born to be punk.

There’s no denying it. Gen X is the generation of punk. It’s ours. You can’t have it. We did that. For whatever reason, whether it was the neglect, the abuse, the lead in the hoses, the sexual frustration we experienced in not being able to see Molly Ringwald naked during our coming of age (it couldn’t be Molly because punk was well established before she splashed on the scene, but the struggle was real for me), being born into this, or some combination of the above and more . . . we looked around and what we saw pissed us off. It pissed us off so much we felt the need to let everyone know just how pissed off we were and how fucked up it all was.

What exactly bothered us? Everything. But at the core, it was the establishment, the institutions, the structures, the social order, the government, the adults, the elites, anything and everything in power which told us subtly, or not so subtly, that there were things we “had” to do, that we “had” to act a certain way, that “this” is what it was to be an “adult,” that “this” is what “success” looked like, and that “these” were the things we should value.

We looked at all that and said, “You know what? I have a better idea. What if we just burn all that to the fucking ground instead?” And you know what? We tried. Some of us succeeded, to varying degrees, in our own lives. But, the movement writ large was never, almost by design, going to be the predominant cultural narrative.

That is, until a bunch of frustrated and working class white guys, 13% of Black men, and 46% of women (overwhelmingly White and Latino) got together on Tuesday night and said, “You know what? Hold our beer.”

Another Other Day. . .

I can hear the eye rolls, but I’m serious.

The idea’s been floated that MAGA, the alt-right, whatever you want to call it, is the new punk. It sounds strange, almost absurd. Most punks I know reject the idea outright. But I will say, be weary of any old punk who sits in judgement of who “isn’t” punk. There’s no surer sign that they’ve likely turned in their punk card and become part of the establishment . . . even if they don’t know it yet.

Ironically, I stumbled upon the idea before I’d heard about it.

I was at a friend’s wedding in Guatemala right before the election. I was having a lovely conversation with a new friend when he asked me, “Okay, but who are the punk rockers today?”

The question caught me off guard for a second, but the answer unsettled me, as did the speed with which it arrived. “I think they’re the ones running around in MAGA hats,” I said.

And the more I’ve thought about it, the more I’m convinced. And look, I don’t like it either. Punks are my people. To think that the current incarnation is a bunch of guys running around in red hats trying to resurrect America doesn’t sit well with me. Not because I hate America, or anything like that, but because the rebels don’t look, sound, or think like me anymore. I’m sure the “real” punks felt the same about me and my straight-edge hardcore crew when we crashed their party with a bunch of positivity and general abstinence from all things fun. So, perhaps it’s its own right of passage.

Either way, it’s okay, because punk has always been a big tent. There’s always been wiggle room to craft your own version. Punk is a variation on a theme after all. It’s not a thing per se. It’s a spirit. A spirit of defiance and resistance to the status quo, an inherent “Fuck this!” attitude (which can be either negatively or positively directed), and a profound sense of independence (which can either be real or imagined). Say what you will about the MAGA boys and girls, but they’ve got this shit in spades. As do most Gen Xers to some degree or other, which makes sense.

So, if punk explains what happened, allow me to offer a word of advice on how to move, or perhaps not move, forward when dealing with such people.

Disclaimers. . .

A word of caution.

There’s a breed of punk with whom nothing will work. They are “set against,” pure and simple, impossible to reach. Thankfully, this more full-tilt nihilistic take on punk doesn’t have many followers. It’s really hard to maintain this level of negativity for an extended period of time, if for no other reason than its adherents tend to find themselves very much alone . . . for obvious reasons. I wouldn’t waste my time and energy on them if I stumbled upon them.

An additional word of caution.

This isn’t a cake recipe. We’re dealing with human beings who are infinitely more complicated and nuanced than we generally give them credit. So, perhaps instead of seeing the following as a roadmap for guaranteed success, it’s better to think of it as a playbook. At the end of the day, the good news is, we can do worse than we’ve been doing so far.

How to Manage a Punk. . .

First things first. I would recommend avoiding rejection, in all its forms. Rejection is fuel to the punk fire. When I was younger (and I still have flares of it even in my premature enlightenment), if someone didn’t want me around, that was fine by me. I’d take their rejection and double down on it. As Jim Croce . . . I know, not exactly your punk icon . . . wrote, “bridges were made for burning.” And boy oh boy, did I love lighting those fuckers up. Nothing made me happier.

Rejection takes two forms in modern politics. The first is ostracism. We look around and see a bunch of people we don’t understand, who don’t look like us, who say incredibly outlandish and triggering things, and our immediate knee jerk reaction is to push them as far to the periphery as possible. Out of sight, out of mind. But that’s just another version of burying our collective heads in the sand.

A punk will always seek attention. If nobody’s looking, well then, it must be time to do something even more outlandish. If they’re pushed to the periphery, it doesn’t make them want to conform. It solidifies them in their positions, to the point where those positions become bigger than life, to the point where they can, and often do, become an identity. It reinforces their beliefs that they’re onto something, that they’ve discovered something true, that they’re too real, that they’re too dangerous. There’s no sense in compromise. In a choice between “my way” and “the highway,” they will 100% of the time take “the highway.”

Closely related to ostracism is invalidation. Nobody likes to feel invalidated. Nobody likes to feel like their ideas, their hopes, their dreams, their concerns (real or imagined), their strengths, their perspectives, their beliefs, yada, yada, yada, don’t matter. Invalidation makes conversation senseless, as in, it literally makes no sense to sit down with someone who rejects what we think before we’ve had a chance to share it. If there’s no use in talking, chances are pretty good, a punk will see the line drawn in the sand and jump over it with both feet.

We also have to be careful in what we assume we know about why, or even, what they’re doing. I have a four year old. I know the challenge of approaching someone who is so defiant, so confrontational, so in your face, so harsh, so blatantly mean, with kindness and curiosity. But, it turns out curiosity isn’t to blame for the dead cat. No, my friends that honor belongs to arrogance, self-satisfied knowing, and echos from our chambers.

Finally, don’t try to bullshit a bullshitter. This is especially true in dealing with Gen Xers. It’s important to keep in mind that those of us who aren’t in prison, rehab, psych wards, or dead are fucking survivors. We won’t be fooled. We won’t be placated. We won’t be spoken down to.

Keep Calling Us Names and See What Happens. . .

I look around at the world and I can appreciate the discomfort I see in the faces and hear in the words of people right now. But, we have to keep in mind, we’re all connected. Everybody is more or less in the same place. Ain’t nobody happy.

At the end of the day, that’s why Trump won. Sure, I suppose there are some people who are “happy,” but soon enough, chances are, that will pass. Because that’s what happiness does. Because that’s what everything does. It comes and it goes. Our job isn’t to write the ending, or die with the most toys, or win at life. It’s to figure out how to make the journey as peaceful, internally speaking, as possible. It’s about seeing beyond the oppositional patterns of thought (us/them, right/wrong, either/or, good/bad) which only serve to separate us from each other and the world at large.

This ship is sailing and we can stand on the bow and push against the bridge for all we’re worth, but we’re going along for the ride all the same. We can continue to reject, invalidate, offer up nonsense, all the while, assuming we know, or we can try something different.

Andrew Sullivan summed it up beautifully in his column last week. He wrote,

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But Trump is now a world-historical figure, the most significant American politician of this century so far, with a real mandate. That requires, in my view, an attitude adjustment: not a doubling down of “resistance” but a strategy of engagement and discerning opposition. The way to get Trump to do what you want is to flatter and seduce him — the way Putin and Kim Jong Un do. I suspect that finally giving him the establishment respect he so desperately yearns for could be the most effective way of dealing with him. That requires a real shift in worldview among his opponents. And it will not come easy to many of us. But if this election doesn’t occasion that, what would?

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I don’t like it, but I’ve come to realize that reality doesn’t give a shit what I think, and ironically, I’m happier when I don’t think it should.

Does Barry Manilow Know You Raid His Wardrobe. . .

In closing, I’ll just say this.

Growing up in the 70s and early 80s was a trip. I have no idea how any of us survived, but when I look back our collective trauma makes sense to me. Although, we would’ve never classified it as such back then.

There was a recurring theme throughout my youth, which I keep thinking about. It was being the recipient of what I came to call, “The One Day You’ll Learn,” speech. The first edition I remember came in the 3rd grade from Mr. Lynch, the gym teacher. I have no idea what I did to raise his ire, but I do remember him telling me that I, and I quote, “would learn soon enough . . .”. I assume he meant to finish with “not to be a smart ass,” or some such, but I’ll never know for sure.

What I do know is that I hadn’t apparently “learned” by the time I hit the 5th grade, because then it was Mr. Rosencrans’ turn. Then in high school it was Mr. Ocker’s turn. He was the chemistry teacher, and one day he stood over me with his fist balled up, yelling at me, “Do it one more time Haas! Do it one more time and I’ll show you.” That one stands out, not for the potential of violence, but because I was completely innocent of the “crime.” Richie Good was whistling in the back of the class and Mr. Ocker thought it was me. I hated whistling then and I hate it now.

Anyway, long story short, by the time I got to grad school and Tom Dickenson, the big man on campus in charge of a bunch of things that had nothing to do with me, told me, “One of these days, you’ll shut up long enough to figure out how the world really works,” I just laughed. Right then, and right there in his face. It wasn’t the response he was suspecting, and it caught me off guard too, but he was just so pathetically late to the party I couldn’t help myself.

I still haven’t learned. And now I’m at an age where no one thinks to tell me. Perhaps they’ve written me off as a “lost cause.” If only they knew. I was born a punk. I’ll die a punk. Which is why, when I stumbled upon an idea squirreled away in random places on the interwebs, I had to laugh.

It’s the suggestion that Biden may resign in the final days of his Presidency, thereby making Kamala the 47th President of the United States and effectively throwing a very large, and very expensive monkey wrench into Trump’s branding as 47. Now, I don’t know about you, but that’d be pretty fucking punk, funny as shit . . . and not at all helpful.