Until Thursday, I was perfectly happy to be the tail wagging the very, very end of the Baby Boomer dog. But, apparently, I am in reality part of the lamest-ass generation since Generation Y (how sad are those afterthoughts?)

That’s right, Generation Jones. What does it mean, you ask? How is it that one surname can so succinctly encompass the dreams and lives of those born between 1954 and 1965?

Let’s get our answer from the horse’s mouth. This is how dipwad amateur phrase-coiner and social commentator Jonathan Pontell explains the reasoning behind his invention, “The name ‘Generation Jones’ derives from a number of sources, including our historical anonymity, the ‘keeping up with the Joneses’ competition of our populous birth years, and sensibilities coupling the mainstream with ironic cool. But above all, the name borrows from the slang term ‘jonesin’ that we as teens popularized to broadly convey any intense craving.”

Wha? There are “a number of sources” and those are the best examples? We are the generation whose parents kept up with the Joneses and so we are ironic cool while simultaneously jonesin’ anonymously? What? WTF?

And, populous? We’re more populous than the boomers? Isn’t that why they’re boomers? Because they comprised the friggin’ boom?

Nobody checked with me on this. When I first heard Jones, I thought, “Oh, there must be something compellingly resonant going on here. Is it Davy Jones? Quincey Jones? Is it some unsung sociologist who wrote a book about us and, like, totally, totally gets us?” No. Look it up. It’s a freakishly fluffy-haired dingleberry with the world’s worst website and no cred. It’s making me crazy; I can’t stop linking. Don’t go there, for God’s sake, don’t encourage him.

It’s not that I think I’m strictly boomish, because I grew up with two of those. They had Simon & Garfunkel posters; I had Bruce Springsteen posters. They had to wear skirts to school; I safety-pinned my jeans cuffs around my ankles. They were in bands and went to discos and concerts, and I . . . I watched TV. I watched hours and hours and hours and hours of TV. Gilligan’s Island. The Flintstones. M.A.S.H. Happy Days. Donny & Marie. Carol Burnett. All in the Family. Mary Tyler Moore. Bob Newhart. The Rockford Files. Baretta. Easily every episode and a hundred more just like them.

For boomers, a pivotal moment was when the Beatles came. For us, it was when cable came. Then, God created VCRs, and the angels got together and MTV premiered, and before I knew it I had spent my twenties in bed with my boyfriend, smoking cigarettes and watching thirtysomething, SNL, Black Adder, and every movie ever made.

We were the first generation to be cut loose in front of the tube. We saw all of Mr. Rogers. The whole Sesame Street from end to end. Every Electric Company. Multiple Scooby Doos. Then, adolescence. James at 15. Family. Good Times. Eight is Enough. Welcome Back Kotter. Facts of Life. The after school specials and the very special episodes. It was like we were hydroponically raised on crap as part of some colossal social experiment. We are human duck livers.

Barack Obama — whom Pontell likes to call a Jonesist or Joneser or some other ridiculous thing which is simply not going to stick — escaped overseas. The secret of his success? There was nothing to watch on TV in Malaysia in 1973. I mean, nothing.

I think the alternative is fairly obvious. Brace yourself, you are ringside at the cultural unveiling of Generation V. Makes sense, doesn’t it? Spread it. Meme it. Roll it around in your mouths like PopRocks.

Now, we need a slogan. How about: Generation V: Where were you when that Whitesnake video came out? Or, Generation V. We didn’t invent YouTube or Tivo, but we love them very much. Or, Generation V: We’re not Jones. Jones is half of a short-lived comedy western in which the other half (Smith) killed himself. For real!

Naw, something simpler. Maybe just Generation V: A very special generation.*

* Brought to you by The Greatest Generation, who would like to take this opportunity to apologize for being mostly burned out as parents by the mid-1960s. We never, ever, should have let you watch Love, American Style.

Oh, look it up yourself.

Tweet  Print This Post

Tags: race & culture, television // 3 Comments »