Instagram confuses me. I don't understand the interface. I get notifications on my phone that my friends are posting - even sending me messages - and when I can find the app on my damn phone I open it and I get lost. I can't find the posts or messages my friends are sending me.
Too old, yes. I remember when they invented chocolate. Sweet, sweet chocolate . . .
I should remind my readers: As Gen X, I can adapt to new technology as well as any Millennial, but I reserve the right to be cranky about it like my Boomer ancestors.
It seems some in Generation X want to shed that moniker in favor of "Gen Goonie."
While I like "The Goonies," my laid back, slacker reaction to this is:
Part of me has never really understood the labeling of generations. I guess from a historical standpoint, it makes sense to help discern between eras in a way that crosses (some) cultural boundaries, though I suspect this is mostly an American (as in, United States of America) affectation. Maybe not. I don't know, and it's probably not all that important to know anyway.
In other words: I'm fine if some of them want to call themselves Gen Goonie. I'll stick with Gen X, because, meh.
One of the best descriptions of current-day Gen Xers came in a review of "Bill and Ted Face the Music" at Slate, and I think it fits generally how our generation is still forgotten:
"In its way, this closing chapter of the Bill & Ted trilogy is an allegory for the status of Gen Xers in the dystopic landscape of 2020. They—for some of us, we—are now middle-aged slackers still waiting for our one grand moment of apotheosis, convinced the song we were put on Earth to write is yet to come even as the culture around us moves on."
In a way, though, we're used to it. We were pretty much forgotten as a generation as we grew up, in the shadow of the Baby Boomers, who still dominate the landscape like skulking dinosaurs today.
This is typical of how we're seen today:
And I'm good with it. Let the Boomers and Millennials fight it out. I'm too busy with my head down, getting things done.
We weren't ready as youngsters to lead. Too callow. And now, too forgotten. handing things over to even younger ones, well, just to do that without thinking of finding people up to the job, that seems stupid. But we live in Stupid Times.
First of all, I have to look up disaffected: dissatisfied with the people in authority and no longer willing to support them.
Which, of course, reminds me of this:
“‘We Shall Overcome’ is a song which, in various languages, is common on every known world in the multiverse. It is always sung by the same people, viz., the people who, when they group up, will be the people who the next generation sing ‘We Shall Overcome’ at.”
~Terry Pratchett
The more things change, you see, the more they stay the same.
When someone says you’re from a particular generation, don’t stop to combat the stereotypes, indulge in your generation’s pre-set Five Minutes’ Hate, or what have you. Ask the person applying the label what they stand to gain from labeling you.
Because what’s going on here requires another definition: Pigeonhole; a category, typically an overly restrictive one, to which someone or something is assigned.
If someone wants to understand you by slapping on a label based on your birthdate, beware. They don’t really care about you much at all, outside of your desirable (or not) demographic and your disposable income (you see the “disaffected” part of the Gen X label does apply in my case, but I swear it’s only by coincidence).
This brings to mind another quote:
“Life is pain, highness. Anyone who says otherwise is selling something.”
~The Dread Pirate Roberts
Now that there is cynicism, supposedly another Generation X trait. But it comes from William Goldman, born in 1931 and thus pigeonholed into the Silent Generation, which appears to be just as “forgotten” as Generation X.
But here’s what’s more significant: Who cares?
Any generation is going to produce cynics, those disdainful of authority, and those ready to be marketed the likes of mood rings, Woodstock, avocado toast and “experiences” over “things.” And just as equal in any generation are those willing and able to make a buck of pigeonholing the rest of us into whatever demographic or divide they can conjure up to make us self-aware and woke and pitiable while at the same time EMPOWERED and ALWAYS willing to buy what they’ve got to sell.
I’ve read a lot about the presidency of Richard Nixon, an intellectually brilliant man who let his paranoia drive his actions. There were plenty of people singing “We Shall Overcome” at him, and at pretty much anyone in authority at that time. Dave Barry describes the Nixon Era as a battle between people who figured there weren’t enough Americans over in Vietnam killing people and others who figured there weren’t enough Americans at home killing each other. So, you know, messed-up times. And I seem to recall that we’ve had messed-up times before that. And since. And this dividing of people into generations may satisfy some innocent sociological need for definition, but it’s been seized upon by the marketeers and the radicals and weaponized to the point there are plenty of people out there from whatever generation you might care to mention who think everyone outside their own little shitty pigeonhole is a moron.
So here’s a little advice from a guy in Generation X, who read Douglas Coupland’s “Generation X” and recognized a bit of himself in Paul Fussell’s “X” generation from his book “Class.” (Both books, by the way, are dated, but if you’ve got time for only one, read Fussell. His is better.)
Stop it. Stop thinking you have to march in step with whomever it is selling you something. Or march away. March all you want. Just keep your jackboots off others’ faces, even if they’re marching in a different direction.
Or, as Moe Szyslak* puts it best:
*If you’re “triggered” by The Simpsons, watch this instead:
And remember that the most popular show nowadays treats rape like a recreational activity.
Indy and Harry
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Joseph Smith Rough Stone Rolling, by Richard Lyman Bushman. 740 pages.
Read in 2026
Al Capone does my Homework, by Gennifer Choldenko. 214 pages.
Americans at War, by Stephen Ambrose. 252 pages.
Astoria: John Jacob Astor and Thomas Jefferson's Lost Pacific Empire. 366 pages.
Bear that Wasn't, The; by Frank Tashlin. 64 pages.
Christmas Box Miracle, The; by Richard Paul Evans. 261 pages.
Complete Ripping Yarns, The; by Michael Palin and Terry Jones. 278 pages.
Cowboy and His Elephant, The; by Malcolm MacPherson.240 pages.
Cuckoo's Egg, The; by Cliff Stoll. 400 pages.
Dirks Escape, The; by C. Brandon Rimmer. 191 pages.
Dog for All Seasons, A; by Patti Sherlock. 244 pages.
Dragonhaven, by Robin McKinley. 342 pages.
Gun Seller, The; by Hugh Laurie. 340 pages.
I Capture the Castle, by Dodie Smith. 343 pages.
J. Golden Kimball, the Story of A Unique Personality, by Claude Richards. 398 pages.
Kaboom Boys, The; by Elaine Hume Peake and Don Keith. 345 pages.
Last Battle, The; by Cornelius Ryan. 571 pages.
Malcolm at Midnight, by W. H. Beck, pictures by Brian Lies. 267 pages.
Mogo's Flute, by Hilda van Stockum. 87 pages.
One Corpse Too Many, by Ellis Peters. 285 pages.
Portable Door, The; by Tom Holt. 404 pages.
Possum that Didn't, The; by Frank Tashlin. 64 pages.
Rare Benedictine, A; by Ellis Peters. 150 pages.
Relativity: The Special and General Theory, by Albert Einstein. 164 pages
Social Contract, The; by Jean-Jacques Rousseau. 188 pages.
Tales of the Peculiar, by Ransom Riggs. 190 pages.
There's Treasure Everywhere, by Bill Watterson. 173 pages.
Three Against Hitler, by Rudi Wobbe and Jerry Borrowman. 164 pages.
Town, The; by Shaun Prescott. 247 pages.
Unsung Heroes and Settlers of Bonneville County, Idaho; by Connie Otteson. 167 pages.
Walk in the Woods, A; by Bill Bryson. 397 pages.
Will Rogers Book, The; compiled by Paula McSpadden Love. 212 pages.
Ze Page Total: 8,009
The Best Part
Americans at War, by Stephen Ambrose
The Indiana and the Illinois units came over the barricade north of the railroad and captured a gun. Private James S. Adkins of the 33rd Illinois, exhilarated by the bloodless victory, leaped astride the gun tube, waved his elbows up and down at his sides, and crowed like a rooster. Then, curious, he tugged at the lanyard. The gun went off, hurling a shell close over the heads of the units coming up in support, and bucking Adkins head over heels into the dirt. Miraculously, no one was hurt.