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Friday, February 25, 2011

Don't Tread On My Zeitgeist.

“What’s wrong with your generation?” He asks me,
As I slide a crumpled, five dollar bill across the counter.
“What’s right with my generation?” I snort,
As I hit the fresh pack of smokes against my palm.
I slide the change into my levi’s,
Nod at the cashier,
And turn to the man, with one eyebrow raised.

He shakes his head and sighs a big groan,
I imagine he’s remembering the Kennedy Administration,
And America towering above the universe,
Gazing through stars and cosmic clouds,
All the way down,
Watching the rest of the world play catch up.

I stand there in silence,
Because to respond as anything other than a smart ass,
Well, that would be a damn tragedy,
And as it would seem, I’ve already done that once today.
Sarcastic repetition seems to work so much better than making opinions,
So I do what any 31 year old would do:
I smile, energized by my own brilliance.
He looks at me with pitiful eyes and exits like the Santa Ana’s.

So now I sit here in a blue lawn chair,
Positioned delicately on the porch of my mother’s house,
With my arms folded, my feet up, my knock-off Ray Bans on,
A glass of mommy’s lemonade on a tiny table to my right,
And a cigarette dangling hazardously from my mouth.
“What’s wrong with your generation?” reverberates in my ears,
Like a band performing a sound check,
And all the notes are off.

A thought-bubble-light-bulb appears above my head,
And I realize that, sometimes I blow my own mind.
I’ve decided to write him a letter.
This stranger,
This “Zeitgeist Contender,”
Needs to be enlightened,
I’ve become Buddha,
I’ve become Gandhi,
I’ve become Lady Gaga,
Ready to impart my wisdom.

And I will wait in that grimy Seven Eleven on 18th Street,
Until Armageddon,
Or at least until he gets his next cup of coffee.
And I will hand him this gift,
This tome of my age.
I begin by:
Expounding on how all religions blend as one,
A rubber band ball of ideas, faiths, and realities,
Ready to bounce our souls into eternity,
Or the lack thereof.
There is no absolute truth you idiot,
And I know this absolutely!

I’ll dive into every minute detail of social networking,
And point out how he’ll never have as many friends as me.
Then my tears will soak the pages,
As I think about the fact that,
No one will know every massively, insignificant detail of his day.
I’m getting excited about this!

I’ll explore politics and sexuality,
Since they go hand in hand this part will be cake to write.
We’ve got a President with six pack abs,
How do I know this?
You don’t ask.
I don’t tell.
I almost voted for the other guy,
With the sexy-secretary governor,
But decided to obey Shepard Ferry.
He makes cool posters.
Who doesn’t like cool posters?

And after that I’ll pontificate about film, music and books!
Well not books.
That makes me think of reading.
Can’t we do that through, like, osmosis now or something?
That makes me think of writing.
With a pencil.
Maybe I’ll just email him.

So now my mom’s calling my name,
It’s that sweet dinner-time-tone,
And this camel has been parked on my lips for way to long.
God, its hard being 31 and living at home,
When everyone’s on your back,
And all you want to do is make out with your video game controller.

Gotta go tweet about this.

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