I've Been Vain in Vain
For most of my life, I've been a vain fellow. Actually, I'm probably not attractive enough to be successfully vain, but definitely insecure about the way I look. My head is too large for my taste. Although I've never been overly fat, strictly speaking, generous pockets of padding have prevented me from being a skinny youth. I mean, I had a pot belly when I was ten. Also, thick tufts of hair protrude on my chest, stomach, back and ass.
None of that is changing any time soon. In fact, at the age of 27 I've begun the phase of life in which my body will always be worse than it was before.
But, in a great example of life adapting to its environment, Nature has given me a tool to fight off the insecurity of getting older: a passionate belief that all young people are stupid.
Suddenly, anything on my body that separates me from the 18-24 demographic is a blessing from above. The swelling bulges of fat on my hips are badges of honor. My sagging man-breasts are blue ribbons. The hair on my ears is manna from heaven. My retreating hairline is on a march away from youth to dignity.
No Longer Wish To Reign
This has come out of nowhere. I mean, I've always sneered at people in general and outrageous youth culture in particular, from mohawks in the mid-80s to those huge bell bottoms of a few years ago to the current popularity of Dawson's Creek.
But no matter how much I made fun of young people, I still wanted to be one of them, or at least rule over them. To be angry is to care, at some level. I daydreamed of being in a famous rock band, or the star of a popular movie. I pictured myself on the cover of Rolling Stone, just for fun. I had an Oscar acceptance speech worked out to the last word.
Without warning, these desires have left me.
Somewhere, my friends are laughing in disbelief. Okay, I'd probably still be into leading a great band. But not nearly as much as I used to. Rock musicians have all lost my respect. Even as late as 25, I thought Nirvana really meant something. Who did I think I was kidding? The guy was a drug addict from a broken home! So he could play three chords and scream! So what? Marilyn Manson? Tell that punk to quit whining and get a real job!
Can't Muster Disdain
Dear God, what is happening? I am losing a piece of myself!
I mean, Spite's first article was a reaction to the success of Alanis Morissette. The point escapes me (as it did everyone) -- something about how Alanis was a fake, and that there were other singers who deserved her success. Whatever. For some reason, Alanis' success truly angered me.
Today, John Lennon himself could come back and award the Backstreet Boys the Nobel Prize for Pop Relevance and it wouldn't bother me a bit.
Actually, the entire nation's population of 18-24 year olds could declare me the coolest thing ever, and I don't think I'd blink an eye. I would trade it for a month's rent (except for people who read Spite - you guys are great!).
Don't Want To Watch Danes
What a difference ten years makes! I remember watching Winona Ryder on the Tonight Show in 1988, convinced that she was the perfect woman. When she named Buddy Holly as one of her favorite musicians, I was even more certain of her emotional depth.
Two months ago, Claire Danes -- arguably a direct heir to Winona in terms of sex objects for high school honors students -- was on David Letterman and bored me to sleep. She wasn't boring, but she's roughly a billion years younger. She admitted that she had no idea if her then-current movie Les Miserable took place before or after the French Revolution, and I was even more certain of her emotional shallowness.
It's not that Winona was so much more interesting than Claire, but that young Will was far more easily distracted than today's balding Will. That's saying something, because I'm far from perfect now. But ten years ago, I had basically all of my current insecurities and character flaws, and more.
I used to love watching The Real World on MTV, just to make fun of those lucky bastards who got to live in great digs in the world's most exciting cities. Now I can't even muster the interest to find the channel. I'm watching VH-1, if I even turn the damn tube on.
This is worse than I thought. I'll soon enjoy watching golf on television, if I'm not careful.
Why Bother to Train?
Much of my disdain for youth culture is because it abandoned me first. My television stopped talking to me the day I turned 25. It's talking to my younger brothers. Pop songs talk about identity crisis I had years (at least months) ago. Mountain Dew billboards feature young, annoying "daredevils" I wouldn't share a lifeboat with.
Fortunately, stepping out of pop culture's target range is a relief as real as dropping an armload of shopping bags. It's like hearing a vacuum cleaner salesman get bored and walk off of your doorstep. Or, if I may push my metaphors into this century, like every telemarketing representative crossing your number out of their books.
I mean, if pop culture is ignoring me, why should I pay attention to it? Why should I hold myself up to the ridiculous physical standards of the entertainment industry if it doesn't even have the decency to pander to my current interests? Why comb my hair or tuck in my shirt? Drop me out of the race to be young and attractive. I'd rather waddle in the starting gate with a bowl of Skippy Chunky.
So swell on, my gut! Leave me, dwindling hair! Take me away from this generation I've lost feeling for! Bring me to my people, with their 401(k)s, and their obsession with golf and their neighbor's doings! I hereby desire to be... mature!
Except for Spider-Man comics. I mean, let's be reasonable.