“Eu não tinha a dimensão do quão grande era. Eu sabia que era uma cidade grande, mas, quando se está aí, é outra coisa. Acho que o que mais me pega assim são os shows que eu fui.”

 

We focus on our differences, not similarities, because what else is there to talk about? Bruce Handy, while trying to wiggle out of the boomer category, argued that each generation having its own innate persona is a marketer’s version of astrology.* I’ve got news for you, Handy. In this house, we (millennials) believe in astrology.

My grandpa shrank as he aged, getting shorter but not skinnier. When we dropped his pants off at the tailor for hemming, they called to confirm the astounding measurements (a 20:1 waist-to-leg ratio).

During a heated mother-daughter

A high school friend of mine locked her mother out of their house. When her mother tried to enter through the doggy door, my friend stabbed her , claiming that she’d mistaken her own mother for an intruder. I prefer fighting to the condescension of men proclaiming respect for their elders in the form of sexual attraction, as if a boner for a GILF is noble.

This mother used Feria and drove us through the suburbs in her Sebring convertible to track down the source of glamorous searchlights crisscrossing* the sky. (They turned out to be from a Hollywood Tan.) But even being a “cool” mom doesn’t mean you can bridge the generation gap. There’s a congenital conflict between all generations that naturally leads to existential mortal combat. When my grandma saw her first grandchild, she said she felt like an old dog meeting the new puppy; it’s that defensive instinct that causes drama like attempted matricide, sonic child-repelling devices, and blocking student loan forgiveness in the Senate.