Pillow-Faced Introductions

Disaffected. Sounds like a six-year-old trying to get their tongue around household cleaning products.
Sounds like tinny strains of second-hand iPod angst on the bus.
Sounds like your midweek binge.
Sounds like your shitty band and the sigh of your teacher when you've just failed Modern World History through nonattendance.
Sounds kinda like being thirty-eight and jaded when you're seventeen and stupid.
Unhappy and snappy at your pore ol' parents.

And we are, aren't we? Wallowing in our self-pity and carelessness at the bottom of the vast caldera left by the last fifty years. Hell, sixty years.
Sixty-odd years ago the youth were running across battlefields with carbines and hand-grenades to kill for King and Country.
Fifty years ago things were boring, admittedly. They were getting over the war, though. And they had a proper depression. They had an excuse.
Forty years? Shit, you might have taken a pill back then and you still wouldn't have woken up by now. You could grow a beard and fuck your best friend's sister. Catch-22 came out.
The seventies? You could watch bands who were fucked-up on real drugs. You could build a house wherever you wanted. You could blame everything on the sixties.
Admittedly, the eighties weren't so great in retrospect, but at the time, you had a licence to kill with your hair. Nothing was off limits. They took the mullet and permed it. Then they wore headbands and lycra and vinyl. Bright Lights, Big City, man. Lead in petrol was still a great idea. The keytar was fair game. Sonic Youth presciently saw a Teen Age Riot.
The nineties. Nevermind. American Psycho. Oil wars. Flannelette. Fallout. The playstation. Damn, it was the last decade in the millenium. Mobile phones were a luxury.

When you look at it like that, what have we got? Terrorism. iPods. Crazy frog. Postmodernism. Widespread stupidity and ignorance. Crystal Meth. Myspace. Global warming.

Small wonder the youth spend their time drinking premixed vomit and fucking each other stupid and pirating music and reading Cosmopolitan (Yeah, girls, read this and you'll fit in anywhere. Just so long as whoever you're trying to fit in with is a slave to Cosmo as well).

We live in Heller's Rome, without the war. We've got no excuse, with the possible exception of "Whatever.", which won't really cut much ice when the Germans arrive.
I guess we can fall back on the Products-Of-Our-Society line.
Or we can just blame it on being young.


I was bored, what can I say.


Next time: Blawg lite, 99% cynicism free. And if you text in your unique code you get a free ringtone.