In Defense of Generation Douchebag

It seems as though we’ve got some intergenerational conflict simmering in the blogosphere.

A couple of weeks ago – which is, admittedly, like a million billion years ago in blog time – Pajiba’s backhandedly apologetic review of the Prom Night remake sparked some heated debate in its comments section between the site’s Gen X contingent and readers from the next generation, who didn’t take too kindly to being referred to as “Generation Douchebag” in the main article.

And on Thursday, Chez of Deus Ex Malcontent infamy had some not so kind words for the ‘tween demographic and its “crappy, overproduced, Disneyfied” brand of entertainment.

Before I kinda, sorta defend the kids in a roundabout way, let’s get something straight. I do not like any of the things that these ‘tweens find entertaining. Hell, I can barely tolerate most of the things that my contemporaries like. I think that, by and large, pop culture is a vast ocean of liquid poop that we must traverse using rickety rafts crudely fashioned from “Firefly” and “Venture Bros.” DVDs, or from the entirety of Jay Reatard’s discography, or what have you.

But the contrarian prick in me loves to play devil’s advocate. So, here we go.

Ever since the teen demographic was invented sometime after World War II, every generation of teens, tweens and tots has had its fair share of nigh inescapable trendy trash to confound its elders.

The ‘50s saw the rise and subsequent omnipresence of rock ‘n’ roll, which was to sell damn near everything. Even Tony Bennet and Perry motherfucking Como got briefly tagged as rockers during this period. And remember those Elvis movies? Ugh. (I side with that Japanese hepcat from Mystery Train – Carl Perkins is the real king.)

The ‘60s had the British Invasion, Brill Building pop, psychadelia and the summer of love and what have you. Sure, there was a bunch of great stuff that came out of that, but there was also the Monkees and Bobby Goldsboro and the inexplicable cult of Jim Morrison to piss all over the parade.

The ‘70s had disco. ‘Nuff said.

Now that I’ve grossly generalized pretty much everyone who came before me, we arrive at the time of my birth, the 1980s. I’m 22 years old. I’ve lived through a lot of bullshit trends even at my young age, even if I only have vague memories of them.

Here are some of them, in no particular order:

• hair metal

• a catch-all category of crappy synth pop, which includes all teen hearthrob solo acts, boy bands and girl groups from the ‘80s to the present day

• motherfucking Nintendo everything

• “alternative” rock, whatever the hell that is

• Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles

• Saved by the Bell

• Nicktoons

• the Incredible Crash Dummies

• the Mighty Morphin’ Power Rangers, who I’ve just learned are in their fourteenth incarnation

• digital. fucking. pets.

• the Tickle Me Elmo/N64 Christmas death march

• the second boom period of professional wrestling (which, while incredibly dumb, was still fucking awesome no matter what anyone says)

• nu-metal

• Total Request Live

• reality TV

• ironic co-opting or referencing of stuff from the past for humorous purposes, especially stuff from the ‘80s, which is supposedly inherently funny for some reason I can’t fathom (a.k.a., “Family Guy Syndrome”)

• emo/screamo/emocore/screamocore/metalcore/whatevercore

And that’s just the stuff that I could rattle off the top of my head. Even if you like or liked some of the stuff that I listed above in my extremely rough history of America’s pop culture landscape, you must admit that a lot of it is pretty stupid.

My point is, every generation of kids has had its share of ubiquitously popular crap. This generation is no different.

Which isn’t to say that we can’t bitch about it. Bitching is an inalienable right shared by all Americans, young and old. Take away our right to bitch, and you might as well take away our right to breathe.

But while we bitch about the young’uns, let’s just keep in mind that the generations before us said the exact same things about us that we say about them now.

And now, back to our regularly scheduled mudslinging.

"I'm sorry. I love you."

I can’t pretend to know all of the ins and outs of Ric Flair’s storied 36-year wrestling career.

He started wrestling 14 years before I was born. He’d already won seven of his 16 world championships by the time I was 5 years old. Needless to say, I don’t remember much from when he was on top of his game.

I do remember how I felt about him in my adolescence, though.

I didn’t like him.

In fact, I hated him.

Not because he was a bad guy. I knew wrestling wasn’t real.

I loathed the man, not the character.

To a lot of wrestling fans, admitting this is like burning the Bible, pissing on it to put out the flames and wiping your ass with whatever is left over. It’s like being a rock fan and hating Elvis, the Beatles and the Stones all at the same time.

But it’s true. I hated Ric Flair.

Every time he showed up on my TV, I would cringe.

“What’s this guy still doing in the ring?” I’d say. “He’s been going gray since before I was born. Fuck you, Dick Hair. Retire, already!”

As far as I was concerned, old farts like Ric Flair had no place in wrestling. I craved excitement and athleticism. I wanted blood, backflips, chair shots and head drops. I didn’t want to see some geezer strutting around, wooing and rambling on and on about his high-flyin’, limousine-ridin’, kiss-stealin’, wheelin’ dealin’ ways.

And forget about watching him wrestle. The guy never left his boots! All he did was chop and trade holds! If a wrestler couldn’t do a moonsault or wasn’t willing to roll around in barbed wire, he wasn’t worth a damn to me back then.

Take that shit back to the 80's, old timer, I’d think. You’re all talk. I want action.

Over the years, I learned to respect him for all of the contributions he made to wrestling over the years, but a big part of me still thought he was just another old timer who didn’t know when to hang up his boots.

Let me squirt another bit of piss on that Bible: I felt this way until November 26, 2007.

On that Monday night’s episode of WWE RAW, the Ric Flair retirement storyline began.

The evil Mr. McMahon put a stipulation on every one-on-one match Flair had from that point on. If he lost a match in any way, he would be forced to retire from wrestling forever. If he was pinned, if he submitted, if he was disqualified, or if he was out of the ring for more than 10 seconds, there would be no more Ric Flair.

That night, after Chris Jericho provided the distraction that allowed Flair to give Randy Orton a low blow and pin his shoulders for the three count, something dawned on me. I had never known a wrestling world without Ric Flair.

Flair was like wrestling’s AC/DC. He had his prime before a lot of fans were born. He occasionally pulled out a gem afterward and he was a reliable nostalgia trip. There was something comforting about having him around. But that would all end soon.

Cut to March 20, 2008. Wrestlemania XXIV. The official main event was Edge vs. The Undertaker for the World Heavyweight Championship, but the emotional main event happened earlier in the night.

At 8:27 p.m. Eastern Standard Time, Ric Flair strutted to the ring to face down WWE icon Shawn Michaels.

At 8:49 p.m., after pulling out all of the stops, after putting on all of the signature holds, and after pulling all of the dirty tricks he could to stay in the game, he caught a swift sidekick to the face and went down hard.

Michaels stood hesitantly in the corner. He knew what he came to do, but couldn’t bring himself to finish the job.

Flair slowly stood up. He raised his hands to the guard position. Bring it on, his gestures said. He looked ready.

At 8:50 p.m., Shawn Michaels mouthed five words.

One kick and three seconds later, the greatest career in wrestling history ended.

I’m sorry, Ric. I love you.

Boys, Boys, Boys

I’m not usually one to give a hoot about celebrity gossip, but this story caught my eye.

According to this post on A Socialite’s Life, tattoo artist extraordinaire Kat Von D hooked up with Nikki Sixx, the infamous bassist of her favorite band, Motley Crue.

This struck me as odd because on her TLC show "L.A. Ink," she’s still dating that Garth Algar looking motherfucker Alex Orbison, son of rock pioneer Roy Orbison and drummer of some shitty band.

Normally I don’t understand the square-dancey, partner-switching nightmare that is the Hollywood dating scene, but in this case, I get it.

Now, let my preface what I am about to write with a couple of disclaimers.

I am deeply committed to my girlfriend and I would never leave her for anyone, not even Rosario Dawson.

The following is a purely hypothetical scenario meant to parallel the dating adventures of Miss Katherine von Drachenberg, save for the obvious gender reversal.

Right, then. Here we go.

Let us suppose that I am Aloysius Stitches, D-list celebrity and star of my own very boring reality show, "Buffalo Blogger." I am currently dating Kelly Osbourne. She’s an okay girl, and we get along just fine (remember, this is hypothetical).

But the thing is, we don’t really have a whole lot in common, and she doesn’t have much personality or talent outside of being the inexplicably famous crotchspawn of a rock legend.

Plus, she’s kind of homely.

Now suppose that during this time I get the chance to knock boots with the Queen of Metal, Doro Pesch.

Doro is a rock legend in her own right. As the singer of the band Warlock, she was one of the few women to assert her dominance in the ‘80s metal scene, where females were usually groupies, strippers, hookers, or a combination thereof. She still makes pretty decent music today.

Plus, she’s still as smokin’ as she was in the ‘80s.

So, do I take that chance?

You bet your sweet leather-and-stud-covered ass I do.

I have no idea why Kat really broke up with "Orbi." I'm just saying that if this is why, I totally understand.

Of course, given Kat’s reputation as a serial monogamist and Nikki Sixx’s reputation as being Nikki Sixx, I don’t expect this relationship to last the month.

But for now, good on ya, Kat.

Photo courtesy of Kat Von D's Myspace page.

Search and Destroy

At best, the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame is meaningless.

It’s a burgerless Hard Rock Café, just a bunch of old people’s shit festering in glass cases getting gawked at for $22 a head.

At worst, it presents yet another opportunity for baby boomers to suck themselves off for being the supposed Alpha and Omega of pop-cultural history.

[rant]
But weren’t they were wonderfully, funderfully cah-ray-zee back then? You know, back before they became soulless cogs in the corporate machine because they decided that “dreams” and “ideals” weren’t lucrative enough.

Way to stick it to “The Man,” guys.
[/rant]

I don’t mean to disrespect those who blazed the trail for today’s rockers, but rock and roll history is still being written. It’s too sprawling, too insane and too explosive to be contained in some goofy glass pyramid in downtown Cleveland.

To quote Johnny Rotten, “It’s what these people have done that’s relevant, not what they wore while doing it.”

Long story short, I usually meet the Hall’s yearly induction ceremony with a resounding “meh.”

But not on March 10.

If you haven’t heard yet, Madonna was one-fifth of the Hall of Fame’s Performer Class of 2008. For initially unknown reasons, she refused to perform. In her place, Iggy and the Stooges did a run through of “Ray of Light” and “Burning Up” as an apparent tribute.

When I first heard this, I was floored.

Madonna, for all her fame, hasn’t accomplished much of artistic note. She released a few catchy dance-pop singles in the ‘80s, then hopped on whichever musical bandwagon could generate her the most cash for the rest of her career.

She also got naked a lot in the early ‘90s, which is the only part of her career that I can give my full support (and I’m sure her tits could use a little more of that nowadays).

Hiyo!

But seriously folks. Madonna is a shrewd businesswoman, but not much else.

The Stooges helped create an entire sub-genre of rock in the late ‘60s and early ‘70s. It’s called punk. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?

They’re also not in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, despite being on the nomination ballot six times.

You can see why this solidified my view that those in charge of the induction process are woefully out of touch, at times to the point of outright disrespect.

Then I read this article from the March 10 issue of the Detroit Free Press.

According to Stooges guitarist Ron Asheton, it was Madonna herself who approached the band to perform in her place as a way of protesting their repeated snubbing by the Hall’s voters.

After reading this, I was floored yet again, and not just because Madonna acknowledged the importance of someone other than herself.

Rather, this struck me because Madonna represents the epitome of trend-riding pop plasticity and poseurdom. So when even she calls out this operation as bullshit, albeit indirectly, it says a lot about how hollow this whole “pantheon of rock” thing rings.

So for me, it’s back to “meh.”

Act I, Scene 1

It took a characteristically douchey message board post from one of my most loathed Internet personalities to get me back into the writing game.

The man in question: Tucker Max. Perhaps you've heard of him? He's a New York Times bestselling author, a possible pathological liar, and an all-around cocky fuckbag.

I hate him. His writing is shit (sometimes literally). His frat boy persona is beyond grating. Even his name is annoying.

Reading his website makes my blood boil hotter than the piss of a thousand gonorrhea-infected suns.

But a couple of days ago, I stumbled across this two-year-old e-mail conversation between him and Points in Case staff writer Nathan Degraaf.

If you want to wade through the whole pissing match, be my guest.  For those who don't, here's the quote that got to me:

"I am not saying that you can't do it. But until you DO it, everything else is bullshit. Stop talking about it, stop "playing," stop waiting for whatever it is you are waiting for. If you can climb this mountain and sit on top with me and Maddox and few other internet writers who matter, then get up here. There is always more room for talent than there are talented to occupy it."

Tucker, you motherfucker.  You actually made me think.

He's right.  All the talent in the world means nothing if you don't have shit to show for it.

So this is it.  This is my shit, and I'm showing it to you.  I hope you enjoy.

I still hate you, Tucker.  But thanks.