I hate the label “Generation-X”.

I hate it because I’m in that generation.  (Hell, I am practically a float in that parade.)

I’m tattooed, pierced and, most importantly, born between the years 1961-1981.  That’s the cut-off point: Before 1961 and you’re a Baby-Boomer, after 1981 and you’re a Millennium Baby.

Of course, that depends on whom you ask.  Some say it’s from 1964-1975, some 1970 to 1980…well, you get the idea.  Personally, I like to take it in 20-year blocks.  (That seems to make the most sense to me, but it’s a personal feeling.) 

But since it’s my column and my rules, twenty-year blocks it is.

So having said that, let’s say if you’re somewhere around the ages of 23 to 43, congratulations, you are in Generation X.

You know the funny thing about all that?  I’m between those ages, but so are my brother and two sisters, and none of them resemble either me or the stereotypical Gen-Xer in the slightest.

My brother?  Less than two years older than me, not a tattoo or a piercing in sight, is a Sargent on the State Police, and is married to a schoolteacher (who also has neither piercings nor tattoos – at least none that I’ve ever seen.)  My one sister is less than a year younger than me and is a nurse who is married to a fireman.  My other sister is only about four years younger than me, has her Master’s in business and she and her husband and own an Italian restaurant.  (Which I believe is up for sale, so make me an offer.)

(Incidentally, my mom and dad are still married and still seem to like each other, even though you are lead to believe that we are a generation that’s almost entirely a product of divorce.)

I am the one thing that sticks out like a sore thumb in this family.  (Actually, it’s not so much a family as much as Mr. Rogers’ freakin’ neighborhood.)

So what went wrong?  Why am I the only one with a nipple ring and a tattoo?  Why am I the only one who even remotely resembles the Gen-X prototype?

Simple: That prototype is absolute BS.

Hang on, kids – we’re about to kill us some sacred cows and make barbecue out of them.  Go grab a bottle of A-1 steak sauce and follow me.

Now, because I don’t feeling like going too in-depth, I’m gonna give you the short version.  (Once again; my column, my rules.)  The label “Generation X” comes from a Douglas Copeland book, but he claims he got the idea from a sociological book by Paul Fussell.  However, Billy Idol had a band in the 70’s called Generation X, but what the hell does he know about socio-economic class structure in the United States of America?  Yeah, that’s what I thought. 

In other words, we’re gonna blame Copeland.

Anyway, marketers in the nineties picked up on that label and decided to put it on everything they could find, and I mean everything.  So, according to them, if you were in your twenties, you were the embittered and disenfranchised youth of America.  And since you were disenfranchised, you needed to spend money.  (Obviously, spending money would somehow “re-franchise” you.) 

Disenfranchised -- let’s start with that word, shall we?  According to dictionary.com, disenfranchised means deprived of the rights of citizenship, especially the right to vote.

When the hell did any of us lose our right to vote?  I mean, most of us don’t, but we still have the right.  And when was I ousted from the U. S. of A.?  So where the hell did that come from?

I mean, times were a bit lean in the 90’s, but I hardly think I was deprived of my rights of citizenship.

So let’s just say here and now that the term “disenfranchised” is pure marketing BS.

I’m starting to see the makings of a conspiracy here, kids.  But wait, there’s more…

Now you’ve got the marketing people defining the demographic they want to bleed dry on the one hand, and an entire group of individuals who can’t wait to be defined on the other.  Guess what happens next?

You guessed it: we buy into the fallacy.  We buy the clothes, the slang, the attitude and everything that comes with it, no matter how ridiculous.

Case in point: techno and the rave sub-culture.  Now, I don’t want to get into a philosophical argument about the merits of Orbital or DJ WhateverDaFunkHisNameIs, so let’s suffice it to say that techno makes no sense whatsoever unless you’re high on designer drugs.  And then what do you do?  You dance to a mindless beat until your heart cracks right out of your chest and runs all the way home or just stops beating altogether.

That’s techno in a nutshell.  It’s stupid, plain and simple, but we buy into it because it’s part of the Gen X “identity”.

Same thing goes for grunge.  Grunge is the Gen X soundtrack, so you should go buy the album. 

(Please spare me your comments about how wonderful grunge is and the musical contribution of Seattle.  We’re talking about marketing, so stay focused and prioritized.)

And don’t think this is an anti-nineties rave, either.  The same could easily be said for parachute pants and mullets. 

But do you see the trend here?  Tell the people what they are then sell them the uniform.  And we bought into it.

I know I did.  I believed whole-heartedly that I was Gen X.  Actually, I preferred the term 13th Gen, popularized by William Strauss and Neil Howe in their book 13th Gen: Abort, Retry, Ignore, Fail.

I liked that book because it helped me to figure out my generation and what made it tick.  It put it out in pretty clear terms exactly what made this demographic, this chunk of children, different than the rest.  (I won’t get into it here; you want specifics, go buy the book.)  But whatever the name was, it was me.

I was pretty comfortable with the knowledge, too.  That is until, quite by accident, I realized something: I freakin’ hate labels.  I am a unique person and will not be found between the covers of any book.  No one can be defined that easily.  Well, some can, but they’re usually the weaker ones who get thinned from the herd.

And what’s more, I am not unknown.  X is the unknown (at least it is in algebra), and I am not unknown, so don’t call me Generation X. 

Finally, nobody speaks for me but me.  I don’t care who he or she is, they are not the “voice of my generation”, no matter what some critic says.  I never quite understood how someone gets to be the voice of a generation.  It seemed an awfully big cross to bear.  As far as whom the voice of a generation is, that would be each of us -- You got a voice, use it.

So no matter how much they try to define us, it only works if we buy into it.  The problem is we really seem to like the labels. 

Maybe that’s not entirely a bad thing.  I mean, a nice, general kind of label is pretty innocuous.  You gotta start somewhere, right?  When someone looks at you and thinks, “Oh, that person is such-and-such,” that’s merely human nature kicking in.  But when that label becomes more important than the person does, you’re going to have problems. 

And if someone looks at me and all they think is SLACKER, believe me there’s gonna be bloodshed.  I’ve been a busy boy and I am hardly a slacker, thankyouverymuch. 

Maybe I’m just pissed off that I bought into it.  Maybe I’m mad that I was one more pathetic sheep following the herd.  (Although I never went to Woodstock…I am proud of that.)  Maybe I’m a little irate because I allowed myself to be labeled by someone other than myself. 

Well, if that’s the case, then who am I?  What label do I affix to myself?  Shy, good-looking, pensive musician?  Mild-mannered antiMUSIC contributor by day, super-hero crime fighter by night?  The guy your mother warned you about because secretly she wants me all to herself?  Just who the hell am I?

Wait, I’ve got it: I’m the voice crying out in the wilderness with a pocketful of pennies at his disposal who just so happens to have a tattoo and nipple ring.

Sums it up rather nicely, don’t you think? 

That’s my two cents, now gimme my change. 
 

Chuck DiMaria is Los Angeles based musician and antiMUSIC columnist. Check out his website ChuckDiMaria.com for more of his writings, MP3s and more (be sure to read about his adventures in online dating!!)

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