Platitudes are not Healthy for Children and Other Living Things

by Charles Winecoff

The other day I was stuck in traffic behind a young woman whose rear bumper sported three popular cries for help: Hope, Free Tibet, and Save the Planet.  Her ass was covered.

For some reason, it made me think of my late grandmother, an English rose with a backbone of steel – what us Americans call a “tough cookie.”  As a young divorcee, she single-handedly raised my mother, and took care of her own mother, through the Great Depression and beyond.

I used to love asking her about all the events she’d seen take place in her lifetime: the rise of the automobile, the night of Orson Welles’s famous War of the Worlds broadcast, the blackouts during WW2, the “Stars Over America” war bond blitz (which even Hollywood nonconformist Bette Davis threw herself into), the arrival of television, and on and on.

As a boy, it seemed to me my grandmother had lived many lives, and seen more sweeping, historical changes than I could ever dream of.  I had missed the boat.

With our frozen food and color TV, I assumed America had already been through its most violent shake-ups and reached a hard-earned plateau of calm and comfort – this even as Walter Cronkite rattled off the Vietnam body count every night during dinner.  War seemed like a disruption that happened far away, or on a picture tube, or in the past.

Meanwhile, my grandmother’s daughter – my mother, who didn’t work - whined that the US invasion of Vietnam was arrogant cultural imperialism (that is, when she wasn’t pining for her lost youth partying with the boys in the Social Register).  Jane Fonda was right on, and the most ubiquitous poster - War is not healthy for children and other living things - protested silently next to the spice rack on our kitchen wall.

War bonds wouldn’t be making a comeback any time soon.

Little did I know there was a seismic cultural shift going on right there in the privacy of our own home.  I may have missed out on the advent of the Model T, but three-plus decades later, I realize sh*t happens.  Despite myself, I’ve seen plenty of change:

  • At age three, I fell on my head – hard – the day JFK was assassinated.
  • When Judy Garland died six years later, sparking real gay riots in Greenwich Village, my dad and I had our first heart-to-heart as he tried to explain to me that Dorothy wasn’t dead, Judy was.
  • I remember the summer my parents kept the radio tuned to the Watergate hearings - because all I wanted to do was catch Sammy Davis Jr. singing “Candy Man” one more time.
  • I saw the face of the nightly news morph from old white men like Cronkite and Sevareid to women like Barbara Walters, Connie Chung, and Katie Couric (who I could never take seriously after her Today show coverage of 9/11, when she reported that someone had slid down the entire length of the WTC on debris, and survived – sorry, but that’s a deal breaker for me).
  • I recall the days before cell phones and text messages, when telecommunications weren’t just part of the air we breathe, but involved long, grimey, twisted kitchen phone cords.
  • Fresh out of college, I worked in a West Hollywood club that was the first official video bar in the country.  Mixing high-tech VHS cassettes in the DJ booth, I enabled the MTV revolution to whittle away our collective attention span – altering everything from how records are promoted and movies are made to the ease with which Presidential candidates rewrite history.
  • I started writing myself on an electric typewriter.  I wrote an entire nonfiction book without the luxury of Google.  To do research, I went to “libraries” (buildings full of books and printed material).
  • By the time I was an adult single, AOL had replaced the New York Review of Books as the number one way for lonely, horny people to hook-up.

Today, newspapers are dying off like the dinosaurs, partially because they deserve it – and partially because there’s no escaping the endless stream of sound bites and headline news in our cars, cafes, airports, gyms, on our phones, even at the gas pump.  Kids today don’t need to search for anything.  It’s all in their face.

In the elevator at work, a screen announces “Obama tells Muslims: ‘Americans are not your enemy’” (even though evidence suggests they think of us more as suckers than threats), and reveals that the President and Michelle – gasp! - suffered the inconvenience of lost email access for a few minutes that day.  Just another bland, subliminal reminder that we’re all supposed to be One now.

Meanwhile, the old network news programs that first spoon-fed us have paved the way for a whole new generation of chattering heads on cable TV, who assault their 18-to-34 demographic with a daily rat-tat-tat of trivializing, toxic opinions - which their naive viewership mistakes for reporting.

Thanks to Jon Stewart, Bill Maher, and the cast of clowns on SNL and MSNBC, the blur between news and entertainment has been smudged beyond clarification.  Is there an American born after 1980 who can tell the difference been a news report, a comedy routine, and a sportscast?  World events are chewed up, pre-digested and spit out at such hyper-speed, young American brains don’t stand a chance.

Even the snooty, aging hippie class, that prides itself on being so smart, has succumbed.  War is not healthy for children and other living things, at least a complete sentence, has degenerated into a slew of vague, interchangeable, monosyllabic slogans.  HopeFree TibetSave the Planet.

And my favorite: COEXIST (honey, just remove the crescent and star – and problem solved!).  Duh.

These meaningless brainfarts reveal more about a driver’s personal deficiencies as a human being than they do about anything going on in the real world.  Bumper stickers today belie the underlying desperation of an entire generation almost completely devoid of firsthand, real life experience.

And they know it.

Hungry for history (since they don’t learn it in school anymore), starved for the drama of authentic struggle, soulless twentysomethings were greased and primed by the time Oprah and Madison Avenue launched their hope-and-change blitz, with its safe, synthetic promise of revolution, its infantile mantra of “Yes We Can” - and its Pepsi billboards.

Obama reaped all the rewards Martin Luther King Jr. never got a chance to, without doing any of the work.  And the Blackberry generation got its civil rights lite.  Perfect.

But maybe that’s the point: older generations bust ass so younger ones don’t have to.  Maybe not.

Either way, young Americans got to feel part of an election for the first time in most of their lives.  Of course, the big irony is they believe “hope” and “change” and “world peace” are dreams the old white men of the past didn’t share.  Yet I have a hard time imagining any of today’s up-and-coming Hollywood starlets sacrificing a work-out with their personal trainer to hawk patriot bonds.  This is, after all, the generation that would just as soon dress its babies in Che couture as OshKosh B’Gosh.

Modern technology has certainly made life a lot easier for those of us in the civilized world - and, I might add, for a certain Koran-thumping faction of homicidal hypocrites in the uncivilized world as well (not mentioning any names).  But our Garmin-following, touchpad tapping, sci-fi society has also seduced us into letting go of the one thing that really makes us human: our ability to form individual thoughts.

Staring at that car with those three vacant bumper stickers on its rear end made me wonder what my grandmother would have said.  She probably would have just laughed and shook her head.

Then again, she might have shuddered.