As officially post middle age now, of course I entertain the vanity of completing a novel. Maybe trite, banal, just solidly mediocre...it's become of less consequence to me than simply seeing things I'd written years ago of which I have become more convinced as time passes. I know Dr. Mort Damundi is a sophomoric stretch...as are some of my others, Phyllis Stein, Mort Adella, and of course, everyone's favorite urologist, Dr. Mehdi Ochre from the University of San Diablo.
The drive to work in the dim morning light was the usual introduction to a gut wrenching day. It had become obvious to Binder that despite the relative newness of most of the vehicles on the road, either their directionals were already broken, or their use had been prohibited by some secret decree which he had yet to discover. Drivers now simply signaled their intentions to change lanes by swiftly pulling in front of you. If you missed that millisecond in which they cranked their wheels hard to cut you off, well, "Better pay closer attention buddy." He was sure such people resented the fact that they couldn't easily disable their brake lights. And unfortunately and unwillingly, at least in that case, were obliged to let other drivers know their intent to slow down or stop by the brightening of those annoying tail lights.
Binder wondered, too, about the hostility he saw on so many young faces. He identified the hallmark of his youth as joints passed and bottles of wine shared amongst strangers with no particular goal other than to see how many folks could gather and have a good time. He saw little or none of that camaraderie displayed by his juniors. He could not imagine Woodstock being repeated in this generation, unless it included significant sanguineous gladiatorial performances. He had no illusions about the dissolute nature of much of his younger pursuits, and didn't make an attempt to judge his contemporaries as more noble.
But there did seem to be a significant difference. Once, competition for its own sake was basically eschewed; and community, if not embraced as it was by so many, at least acknowledged as a worthwhile endeavor. Now simple acquisitiveness seemed to rule the day.
Perhaps, as his cohorts so delighted in casting off what they imagined was the stodgy hypocrisy of their parents, the Woodstock generation was constrained to spawn offspring disdaining anything associated with its values. By this reasoning Binder might have anticipated the next generation after "Y" would be an amalgamation of Ghandi and Mother Theresa. Or, more likely as he really feared, Caligula and Vlad the Impaler. They would most probably reject the venom that passed for this younger generation's "affability". But he figured Generation X may not experience the same troubles the boomers were having with aging as he visualized TV ads Generation Y would embrace, "Have your parents euthanized at Dr. Mort Damundi's. Quick, clean, efficient and dignified".
He wondered how much of generation X would be allowed to suffer into old age...like, past 55.
He heard remote conversations, coming down from the years ahead, "Mom, Dad, you know we love you. And we appreciate all you've done for us through the years. And now you get to show us a final act of love by swallowing these pills (after you sign the house over) that will remove your unproductive **** from the planet."
Although every generation saw the next as "going down hill, it's the natural trend" Binder knew death can only be celebrated for so long by so many till the last party goer is left to turn off the lights.
He recalled the anthems of his own youth; "All you Need is Love" seemed so far removed from songs about "bustin' a cap in yo' ****." But Alex was a poor choice to discern between nostalgic musings and rational observation.
He was unable to appreciate the nexus between his own generation's hedonistic drug abetted excesses and the present crop of youngsters luxuriating in heated leather seats of SUV's while death rap blared from their onboard stereos. The object of affection remained the same: self.