undershaker

I had the privilege a few days ago -- the twentieth of March, I believe -- of discussing the state of America's suburban youth with a specimen of the very same. One of my not-yet-street coworkers at my cineplectic moonlighting brought to the conversation her impending spring-break in the Redneck Riviera (she didn't use this term, but probably knows it, and well, and would abide it, if prompted). So, I asked in what manner she planned to debase herself -- huffing paint, popping pills, dropping acid... or, just drinking copious amount of hard liquor (tequila, jagermeister, brandy, etc.)?

She implied that, by and large, she and her mates would be hitting the alcohols, but not much else. One mate, though, does (or so the legend goes) crush vicodin and snort it. Alack, she has been asked, and kindly, to not indulge.

This is a shame.

So, I advised my colleague:

"As your attorney, I suggest you watch Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas so as to know how to turn into a wild animal for your trip." (No pun intended.)

And, you know what? This doll had already seen it, about three years ago. So, there is hope for our youth: Phish is dead, rave music is on the decline (though M.I.A. and Dizzee, which are sort-of rave friendly, carry on, and whip my ass like a dominatrix), and cocaine is avoided by most.

Hallucinogens, though, and their facsimiles (i.e. paint fumes (affectionately, "Krylon")), are on the rise.

Sunday was a good day then.