All too often we often wear our generational hubris as a badge of honor. As Boomers age, we often find ourselves speaking in a melancholy voice, nostalgically recalling days past, days of innocence, propriety and rectitude. We bow to our parents -- The Greatest Generation -- and shake our heads with enmity toward our progeny. Boomers look at the societal madness going on all around us and wonder aloud why people -- especially Millennials and now Gen Z -- can’t behave themselves better, especially when their most egregious conduct is captured digitally on a cell phone. Why do you bitch so much? Why are you acting the fool? And for Crissakes, why on earth are you recording it for posterity?
Then the fog clears … my memory returns … and the truth strikes.
Ooops.
The Age of Innocence?
Earlier this month, I ranted about the damaging effects of our overdependence on the cell phone. To be fair, I pointed to the many pros … the utility of being dialed in 24/7, etc. But I emphasized the cons: the addictive nature of the device, its accessories (i.e. Social Media) and the psychopathy it produces.
But I left out one thing.
My own history.
Perspective. Seems important, eh?
You see, growing up in the 70s, we didn’t have cell phones. So along with the freedom from parental tracking, no matter what I did in my teens and 20s, there’s no record of it. Regardless of my Herculean feats of knucklehead behavior, the shenanigans, my headlong dives into
Regardless of my Herculean feats of knucklehead behavior, the shenanigans, my headlong dives into hedonism -- and there were many -- today there is no proof.
hedonism -- and there were many -- today there is no proof. Nothing. No phone video, no selfies, no audio recordings, no awkward posts on Facebook or Instagram, no “gotcha” re-tweets. Not even voicemail or email. In the 70s, we left no fingerprints. Unless somebody had a Polaroid handy, it didn’t happen.
Thank God.
The Boomer Remembers … mea culpa
I’m really glad there are no digital remnants of my unruly past. Only the wholesome family pictures my mom collected. But mom wasn’t around to record the not-so-virtuous moments, such as the time in the middle of the night my friends and I climbed up and into a five-story high water tank. Not just up top of the tank. Into it. Think if we had a cell phone …
Mom never saw strange, leafy plants growing under a heat lamp in my apartment closet. Or the beer can pyramids. Or the hangovers. How would those look if she had an I-Phone?
And there is no record of the time in the Arizona desert when I inexplicably (OK, alcohol was involved) allowed friends to bury me in the sand and build a campfire atop my body. Real MENSA stuff. Would have made a helluva video.
There are many others, and a lot worse. I’m sure I’ve forgotten even more. Too long to list here. Besides, I’d rather not have to change names to protect the innocent. Like Wyatt Earp. Let it all live in legend.
A Cautionary Tale
I bring this up as a cautionary tale to my younger friends. Holster that phone, especially when drinking or not thinking straight. It can be a weapon of self-destruction. Do you really want to play Russian Roulette with a snapshot of your clown face potentially exposed to the masses?
Think before you send that ad hominem. Be deliberate. Expression is important. Dialogue is how we learn about ourselves, others and the wonders of the world. But ask yourself … is posing with an uplifted middle finger really speaking truth to power? Remember, your peccadilloes, once posted, just don't disappear into the ether when you hit “delete.” It hangs around, like a shadow, at the very least in someone’s memory.
Take it from a Boomer … and survivor. Don’t leave your fingerprints.
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