Even our fresh, young art has been forced into subservience to the Boom's antiquated crap. Carlos Santana whores out shoes at Nordstrom's, from somewhere beyond the stratosphere Jerry Garcia's corpse pimps his primitive prints on upscale neckwear (as if Deadheads actually shop at Macy's) and, if I see one more overhyped reunion tour of ancient rockstars dressed in tight leather pants gyrating their stuffed scrotums around on my TV screen — when I'm done puking — I'm going to embalm Keith Richards because, and I don't know if anyone else has noticed this but, Keith's corpse is getting a little flyblown.

Our day will come, my Boomer friends, and your bar tabs are going to be marked "pay in full." I envision poorly funded state hospices and ubiquitous rows of paupers' graves. And then finally we'll be free of the yoke of Boomer's pseudo idealism, classic-rock radio, sugar-frosted nostalgia, instant gratification, feminist backlash, bellbottoms, lip service, hip-hip-hippie-hypocrisy, fashionably tragic flower-children, hearing about The Haight, Robert Plant solo efforts, self-help books, male-pattern balding mixed with ponytails, and the rest of the soul-sucking corpulence that is the Boom generation's ultimate legacy. But have no fear, our Boomer Babies'll leave their droolmarks on the world yet: a mass of silicone titties and hair plugs rotting in every grave.

Oh, yeah, you changed the world and now it's great to be old. Lie to us, baby, but shitcan the cognitive dissonance act, and pass the Vioxx.

tick . . . tick . . . tick

Oh, and PS, for a more in-depth and considerably less hostile viewpoint on the subject of generational interactions, read Strauss and Howe's most excellent books, The Fourth Turning, and Generations.