Chronic youth

I’M CAUGHT UP IN AN EMAIL MARATHON with my high school friends, trading japes over a week of sprawling reply-alls (only children of the 90s could misuse email like this; the overlapping call and response is awkward even when you’re glued to your inbox; no doubt kids today reject the mess and lag—too busy sexting).

The subject, nominally, is Can old bros manage to meet up—and rekindle the freaky magic of our clique circa 1992?

The conclusion, sadly, is No. Blame the babies, pre- and post-born, the scarcity of vacation days, diverging ideas of what makes for a good time. As usj, some West Coasters can’t see outside their own time zone. Somebody mentioned a date in summer 2012. I laugh thinking how unfathomable such advanced planning would’ve seemed to us at 18.

Before things deflated (dismissive digs about visiting me at the Mall of America? That’s low), there was this inspired diatribe by Steve Davis, who needs to start blogging again:

[The mainstream triumph of independent music in the vein of Fugazi] never happened, thanks to what Rage Against the Machine started and Limp Bizkit firmly ended with a moronic display of pyrotechnic “catharsis” at an already superfluous anniversary of Woodstock, having celebrated just 5 years earlier in a blatant display of monetary avarice and phony nostalgia for a generation who knew as much about demonstratiing and revolution as the Woodstock generation knew about defeating The Legend of Zelda. Rap rock begat sport rock which begat the vacuum that created the White Stripes, a much needed innoculation against the posturing idiocy of honkies with backward Giants caps and a strange penchant for grabbing their balls when singing that “the reason is you”.

… no amount of time will ever erase those moments when we knew, or at least thought, that we were truly originals in a maze of constructed boobs who followed the trends that proved to lead to nothing more than a version of living that their parents perfected a generation ago.

Whew! Heady stuff. I’m grateful one of us can rally for some righteous nostalgia. But damn, I’d prefer to be schooled in person.

Two more salvos for my solipsistic scrapbook (outtakes from August in Oregon and September in Virginia) are in the can. But first a trip to Iowa for the annual reunion of the Marine Corps Second Battallion, heroes of Saipan, Tulagi and Iwo Jima in WWII. I’ll be MC’ing and KJ’ing. WTF.

Jukebox ’92
>> Slint – Good Morning Captain
>> Royal Trux – The Flag
>> Butthole Surfers – The Hurdy Gurdy Man
>> Hammerhead – Anemia

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