I remember 1980. I remember it because I turned 12 years old that fall and I'd already been in love and had my hopes dashed because of stupid Brian Namony.

And I'd seen a penthouse magazine by then and I'd because of stupid brine namony.

And I'd seen a penthouse magazine by then,

and I'd made my own fireworks,

and I was old enough to think,

maybe having a siren on my Shwin stingray

wasn't as cool as it used to be. I thought the stingray was still

cool, mind you. Even though everyone else was getting into BMX because at that point I was losing

my grip on what was cool and I never learned to skateboard properly and I wasn't very good at missile command and I wouldn't kiss a girl for another four years.

But 12 years old is old enough to remember pretty much everything and unless you're some

ding-dong with feathered hair and a goody comb who's into BMX you're old enough to

know what adults are talking about on television and even by 1980, we'd as a culture had 15 years of solid heyday of boomer youth,

Beaver Cleaver, and Annette Funicello, and seven generations of gray rock and roll crammed into four years, but

Vietnam and Watergate and Emerson Lake and Palmer and Bay City Rollers and punk and disco and the

beginnings of New Wave and all that other stuff that boomers have dined out on for the last 50 years,

the fact is that their parents still wouldn't give them the keys to the culture.

The greatest generation was rounding the corner into their 50s and 60s but

had not yet relinquished their grip on the world. I don't just mean their grip on political

power or their seats on the boards of directors, I mean their tastes still mostly

determined what was on television, what was in the grocery stores, what it meant to be a grown-up,

how big an oldsmobile was, all the important shit.

And even as the boomers moved into their 30s and were already trying to force nostalgia

...