Lost In Limbo: An Accelerated Romp Through Generations

The Vermont County Store – purveyor of AARP-approved house frocks and other oddities targeted toward countrified shut-ins – has been advertising a primordial typewriter with the bravado generally reserved for President’s Day auto commercials. According to the latest catalog, inadvertently delivered to these quarters by my normally astute (and hernia recovering) mailman, the Manual Olivetti Typewriter beckons “all thinking persons past the age of discretion.” Or, translated into the common vernacular, “all persons with fond memories of the Conestoga wagon and unsliced bread.” Already scarred by the cancellation of Lawrence Welk, and shaking in their pantaloons at the advent of digital television conversion, lengthy testimonials from the so-called Greatest Generation read like a disturbing romp through the Land of The Lost.

Whether implicitly damning the invention of electricity (“my fingers had fallen victim to Author-Ritis and could not move fast enough to accommodate the electric typewriter”), or forced to arrest one’s hobby due to presumed technological distrust (“now that I have this wonderful new typewriter I may resume writing again”), nothing says “I drive an enormous Buick, eat cat food, and believe rock music is the spawn of Satan” quite like: “your typewriter survives storms and blackouts … the computer age is not for me.” Well, my dear, maybe this internet thing won’t catch on and we’ll all happily revert to ink wells, American cars, and outhouses. At very least, the nice folks in Weston, Vermont have cured a horrific case of Author-Ritis (although I’m sure there’s a suppository for that), and helped throngs of naïve octogenarians in deterring an amp service upgrade within their flower-print hovels.

Believe it or not, I actually respect the elderly. Before I’m painted as a heartless rogue who pushes occupied wheelchairs down steep hills (into traffic) or pilfers gallons of prune juice from under the noses of old women, know that I appreciate the dedication of our elder statesmen to this country. They loved it, molded it, and fought for it with a righteous mantra of sacrifice and heroism. Through the horrors of (then glorified) war, they wrestled with oppressive regimes in the hopes of preserving the same freedoms granted them upon entry into our harbors; never embarrassed to fly the flag of a nation which offered limitless opportunity where others tendered only prejudice and class immobility. Notwithstanding these valorous feats, this generation also built some of the most revolting architectural eyesores of modern times – constructed within the concrete-themed brutalist style – while razing some of the most beautiful, in an ignorant dismissal of historic merit in lieu of inexpensive solutions. Life in the Great Depression had soured a collective optimism, and this frugality of mindset extended forthright, for better or for worse.

Yet somewhere in the generational chasm between Big Band and Beatles, the brave legions of World War II veterans, and the wives that kept their homes in pristine form, got lost. Or perhaps they purposely opted to drop out, unwittingly dropping into long-standing stereotypes of clueless citizenry: dismissing much of the burgeoning pop culture scene, ignoring technological advances, fearing homosexuals, and preparing for death after age 65, needlepoint in hand, ass on rocker. Now sadly the butt of jokes after a lifetime of drudgery, witness the swan song of the last batch of Americans to drive 45mph in the center lane of an interstate, to mistake gas pedals for brakes en masse, dress in outmoded fashions, consider rock music “noise,” dye their hair blue, assume musty scents, or rage against the rebellion of youth. There will always exist gaps between parent and child, but none shall spread quite as embarrassingly wide.

And here I stand, a lowly member of the oft-forgotten Generation X; sandwiched between the Baby Boomers and their dope smoking, brain frying, hippiedom-cum-corporate model on the one hand, and the socially inept ADD cyborgs of the Millennial gang on the other. Numbering a paltry 46 million, X’ers rate a mere blip on the genealogical radar, spoon-fed the merits of Boomers our entire lives to the neglect of our own accomplishments. And yes, exposure of that generation’s erectile dysfunction conquest does cause a shudder down our collective spines, as do our declining inflation-adjusted incomes vis-à-vis our parents. But remember, we’re Generation X, and we don’t protest these proverbial tide changes, we just ridicule them. Truth be told, we’ve been a well behaved yet cynical niche of sorts, scoffing at our parent’s organized rebellion while sneering at the younger generation’s idealism and everyone-is-a-winner yet no-one-is-singularly-responsible upbringing. Painted as slackers, we’re actually quite shrewd, maintaining a healthy dollop of humor and self-deprecation, thus safely grounding our egos. In fact, our ability to think objectively and speak in complete sentences as opposed to instant messages could one day be an asset. Later rather than sooner, of course, once the media’s preoccupation with all things Boomer has finally drawn enough blood from that stone, and the world looks for a new group of leaders to replace the soon-to-be retired and full-time coital flower children. Naturally, that crown will pass fluidly to the Millenials.

So now that we’ve traveled the unofficial timeline through unsanctioned history, let’s return from whence we started, at the congenial Vermont Country Store and their prehistoric wares, where grandma considers delving into the mattress to buy that Manual Olivetti Typewriter. If you’ve got your bifocals trained on that relic, then the Grim Reaper’s been keeping a close eye on you, my dear. Perhaps an order of Super Omega-3 fish oil pills (item #52478) would add an extra six months, enough time to hammer out the next great American novel, tapping away ferociously through downed power lines and fuse box shorts. Or hell, the seven inch rotating “massager” (item #51669) might even render you immortal, like The Highlander, for a mere $79.95 plus tax. And that’s plenty of additional time to suck up the remaining social security pool that I’ve been quietly funding, without so much as a pout, especially for you. Happy diddling.