We were trying to figure out what “thing” we would be unable to process as society marched forward, what would possess some configuration which would render it unable to be absorbed by our aging brains, in the way that “rap” or “rock & roll” once found themselves in the twilight between exile and ubiquity.
It’s difficult to tell what cultural offers will be elevated, granted Big League status; whatever it ends up being will be wholly inexplicable. By us, anyway. We won’t even have the words to contain our disapproval, and we won’t recognize it as disapproval. It will be a function of these Damn Kids and how they don’t approve of the world we made for them. I’m ready now to love my raccoon son; I’ll stroke his phantom fur while he dozes in his sleeping crate, and leave the lid on the garbage can a little loose. Not too loose, of course - I don’t want to rob him of the little victories that make life so sweet. And I need to prepare him for a world characterized by rugged, stubborn lids.
But what’s it going to be, I wonder - the real one. What will make me beg, beg, beg to have sired an aardvark? Amateur magnet surgery? Spinnerettes? Nose removal? There might be a link for that somewhere, I’m choosing not to look. If I could imagine it, I could prepare for it. I flex my imagination constantly! I make worlds while I’m waiting for my gyro to arrive. If it’s something I can’t imagine by definition, I’m appropriately terrified.
Here is the second, and (for now) final communique from the front. It’s probably final, that would be my guess, but I live in a world where a one-off picture of a cat and a devil resulted in their having lunch months later in a restaurant where frogs serve you from hot air balloons. I can’t graph his shit, son.