Get Off My Lawn

Happy 2011, the year in which the oldest baby boomers, born in 1946, turn 65.  Television, The Bomb, moon landings, coonskin caps, The Pill, feminism, the Viet Nam War, The Beatles, and much else are wholly-owned.

None of us got smallpox, few of us got polio.  We invented sex, and have since refused to agree on its rules.  Our men discovered facial hair; our women conceived leg hair.  During 1967's Summer of Love, some of us moved to San Francisco, where some of us remain preserved in amber.  For the first time in history, we perceived that our parents were neither omniscient nor omnipotent, so fuck them.  We celebrated non-conformity and established a dress code for it.

We don't go to church because our parents made us go when we were little.  For a while, we didn't shower or bathe for similar reasons, but then changed our minds (see, "we invented sex," supra).  We invented the Internet, personal computers, and Star Wars.  We know the difference between Dr. Spock and Mr. Spock.

You're welcome.  Those of you born after November, 1963, continue to send us money, we've spent everything Mom and Dad gave us.