I hate the Boomers.
I know it’s a sin to hate, so let me put it this way: If they were animals, they’d be a plague of locusts, devouring everything in their path and leaving but a wasteland. If they were plants, they’d be kudzu, choking off every other living thing with their sheer mass. If they were artists, they’d be abstract expressionists, interested only in the emotions of that moment—not in the lasting result of the creative process. If they were a baseball club, they’d be the Florida Marlins: prefab prima donnas who bought their way to prominence, then disbandeDé”a temporary association but not a team.
Of course, it is as unfair to demonize an entire generation as it is to characterize an entire gender or race or religion. And I don’t literally mean that everyone born between 1946 and 1964 is a selfish pig. But generations can have a unique character that defines them, especially the elites of a generation—those lucky few who are blessed with the money or brains or looks or skills or education that typifies an era. Whether it was Fitzgerald and Hemingway defining the Lost Generation of World War I and the Roaring Twenties, or JFK and the other heroes of the World War II generation, or the high-tech whiz kids of the post-Boomer generation, certain archetypes define certain times. (…)
It is my contention that the single greatest sin a generation can commit is the sin of selfishness. And it’s from this standard that I draw my harsh conclusion.(…)
At nearly every critical juncture, they have preferred the present to the future; they’ve put themselves ahead of their parents, ahead of their country, ahead of their children—ahead of our future.The Worst Generation. Or, how I learned to stop worrying and hate the Boomers, Esquire.
(Oui, c’est mon obsession du moment.)