In his weekly blog series The Last Generation—really more of a highly flirtatious conversation, littered with innuendo—Max Warren discusses matters of general interest to our generation, frequently quotes things, and spills out the addled contents of a deviant mind.

As we move into 2012, I’ve noticed that most people seem preoccupied with two things. The first, of course, comes with every new year: resolutions and the bright, shining future we intend to build for ourselves—this year, finally, is the year. The second, on the other hand, is something new: will December 2012 really, as some doomsayers claim, be the End of Days—have we truly seen our last Dick Clark and Ryan Seacrest New Year?

The first is vital because, I truly believe that, regardless of fervently made resolutions, time is running out for us. The second matters because, well, if the Mayans are being read correctly, then we’re the Last Generation in more ways than one…

Now, being a confirmed skeptic, I personally am expecting little on December 21, 2012. Don’t misunderstand; I’ll be drinking as much champagne as possible with my nearest and dearest just in case, but I’m expecting to cruise right through to another sunrise. Even if I weren’t, though, I don’t see a potential apocalypse as all that consequential — and that, dear readers, is what I want to discuss.

You see, there’s a secret that I’m going to let you in on.

The world is ending every day.

I know that sounds obvious, at first glance. You can hardly read the news without being depressed by tinpot dictators, the collapse of the euro, or horrendous natural disasters. But those are big, abstract fears, and not what I’m talking about. After all, you can write all of them off as problems in a far off place that most of us are fortunate not to inhabit; problems that are not likely to affect our fat and prosperous American lives anytime soon. No, what I’m concerned about is more personal.

Do something for me. Breathe in. Breathe out. Feel your heartbeat in your own chest. That’s a timer and it’s counting down to the day you die. Now close your eyes and picture nothing but nothing but nothing but that blackness, forever.

Scary? It can be. At the end of the day, we’re nothing more than walking bags of ephemeral thoughts and squishy organs and we’re all marching towards that long, long night. Death—to use the word—is something everyone before us has done and everyone after us will do. You’re going to be dead far, far longer than you’re alive—forever even. And, you know what? Eternity is a really long time, whether we’re conscious of it or not.

Your world is ending every single day. And guess what? There’s no promise of a ripe old age. Sure, it could be sixty years before your time runs out, but it could just as easily be tomorrow. At the end, as Neil Gaiman put it, you get what everyone gets—you get a lifetime.

Doesn’t that sound like a pretty good goddamn reason to do something while you’re here?

You know, we talk a big game, most of us, about all the things we’re going to do and all the things we’re going to be. The world is ours, to hear it told. But all that talk is just that—talk. I think that too often we convince ourselves that we’re immortal (much better than having to face the thought of all that blackness) and, as a result, it becomes far easier for us to say, “I’ll turn my life around tomorrow.”

That’s fear. It’s fear of making a bold commitment and its fear of facing our own mortality. It’s the belief that if we can convince ourselves there’s room to push things back, then we can’t die — simply because we haven’t had time to accomplish our goals yet. That’s our conceit and our self-delusion. Well, the thing is, death doesn’t care how far down you’ve gone on your bucket list.

I have a friend, we’ll call her Aiden, who recently escaped Zion, fled to Chicago and began a new life. Going into it, she had nothing but a very few friends in her adoptive city, and the commitment that comes with deciding to pursue her dreams. A scary situation to dive into and, the caution mongers might even call it ill-advised—but it’s working out swimmingly so far and, even if it weren’t, I know she’d still rather have taken her shot than played it safe.

That’s what matters: that we take our shot, rather than wasting weeks, or months, or even years lining it up. Life is constantly in motion and, when it comes down to it, everything is a moving target. If you wait too long, you’re apt to find that your target has moved and you’ve missed all the same. Only now, you’re left with that much less ammo and time.

I’m not advocating action without deliberation. What I am advocating, though, is that once we’ve thought it through and made our decisions, we don’t then delude ourselves into paralysis. There’s simply not enough time.

Are the aliens coming in 2012? Is it Ragnarok? The Battle of Meggido? It doesn’t matter. The point is that on December 21st, no matter what happens, all of us will be nearly one year closer to death — if we’re fortunate enough to make it even that far. So seize this year you’re being given, make it yours, rely on yourself to change your life and not the fairy dust of some arbitrary resolution.

Let me leave you with a thought by “Wild” Bill Saroyan. He was speaking to writers, but I think it’s applicable to all of us:

“Try to learn to breathe deeply, really to taste food when you eat, and when you sleep really sleep. Try as much as possible to be wholly alive with all your might, and when you laugh, laugh like hell. And when you get angry, get good and angry. Try to be alive. You will be dead soon enough.”

Tick-tock, kids.

Max welcomes your comments and criticisms in the appropriate section below. He further wishes to direct all conspiracy theories and requests for invitations to his 2012 party—to be held at the Flat Iron Lounge in NYC—to Max.Z.Warren@gmail.com

In his weekly blog series The Last Generation—really more of a highly flirtatious conversation, littered with innuendo—Max Warren discusses matters of general interest to our generation, frequently quotes things, and spills out the addled contents of a deviant mind.

First, let me apologize for my absence from your hearts and screens last week. Law school snuck up and forced an actual week’s worth of work on me as punishment for a four month long movie and liquor binge (most recently, Welcome to the Riley’s with Wild Turkey). Now, on to business.

I promised in my first post that this blog would not be a neo-Luddite rant and I’m going to honor that, at least inasmuch as I’m able. I do have something to say, however.

We are, as a generation, becoming increasingly plugged in, whether it be to our ear buds or e-readers. And I worry, as everything that possibly can go digital does so, that we’re going to be unwilling to wait patiently on the things that can’t—that we may cast them aside as remnants of the stupid ages. Ultimately, I’m worried that we’re building a world less beautiful. Life is a play (or maybe a Showtime series)—I’ve always believed this—and I think it would be good for us to pay some attention to the type of stage upon which we’re choosing to act it out.

Ain’t she a beauty? She’s a Remington Rand Model 1, circa 1935. As of a week ago, she’s mine—an early Christmas present. She doesn’t have a name yet and I’m open to suggestions, but I have to admit I’m leaning heavily towards River Tam.

Now, I didn’t just show her to you because I’m proud/aroused just looking at her. River is going to help me make my point. When you punch those keys you feel the words you’re writing. You hear the goddamn smack when the type bar bangs each letter onto the paper. Even though it’s only ink, you write like you’re carving each word into stone.

Now, a brief contrast.

That, on the other hand, is a Kindle. As far as I can tell, they’re basically amazing devices that can carry around all the books that have ever been written or ever will be written. They’re portable, lightweight, user-friendly, focus-grouped and built for a modern user. They also have an unfortunate connotation in my head, however, because of one incident.

I was on a bus, sitting behind an obese woman, who was holding her Kindle in one hand and a big, salted pretzel in the other, pausing from her read only long enough to wipe the grease and errant salt grains from the device.

It’s still a fine device, and I am willing to accept that she may not be the product’s average user. But, let us compare the general experience to reading from a good old-fashioned book.

There’s a certain powerful feeling that comes with holding a book in your hands and cracking the spine. There’s a certain sensation—something like awe—that can come from feeling the weight of the words (if you don’t believe me, go find a copy of The Brothers Karamazov). And there’s a certain pleasure in picking an old book off the shelf and re-reading your favorite passages, which of course you dog-eared. Reading a book is an experience and I, for one, believe that merely displaying the words on a screen is not the same thing.

Then, of course, there are the intangible things. My loyal and attentive readers will recall that the first time my calling—my raison d’être, if you will—hit me in the face was after I read a book called This Side of Paradise. I actually discovered Paradise by accident. Walking around the bookstore, I vaguely recognized the name F. Scott Fitzgerald and randomly picked it off the shelf. It was a very important moment in my life and when I close my eyes I can still recall that store, the smell, the very moment in time. I can relive the scene.

And maybe people who browse on their Kindles have similar experiences. Maybe those experiences feel the same to them. But, if you were to close your eyes and think about a cinematic life-changing event, is it more likely to be finding some treasure in a brick-and-mortar store, or pressing a few extra buttons on a handheld? The point isn’t that the latter is less valid, the point is that it feels less valid in that it makes for a much worse anecdote.

Like I said, there are obviously practical benefits to a device like Amazon’s Kindle. I can’t drag my whole goddamn library around with me, obviously. As far as tools go, Kindles could one day become the intellectual swiss army knife. But, to someone like me with a love of all things past (if you picture Owen Wilson’s character in Midnight in Paris, you won’t be too far off), the experience can never compare. I believe it’s this type of implicit trade-off that deserves our reflection.

I want to leave you with some wise words, courtesy of Spencer Tracy in Inherit the Wind:

“Gentlemen, progress has never been a bargain. You’ve got to pay for it. Sometimes I think there’s a man behind a counter who says, “All right, you can have a telephone; but you’ll have to give up privacy, the charm of distance. Madam, you may vote; but at a price; you lose the right to retreat behind a powder-puff or a petticoat. Mister, you may conquer the air; but the birds will lose their wonder, and the clouds will smell of gasoline!”

As we march on toward greater progress, let’s try and keep an eye towards what we’re giving up in trade. It may be that one day we develop buyer’s remorse.

Live like you’re carving it in stone.

Max may not be up on the newest technology, but he sure does love reading comments. Leave one below and he’ll even respond. In addition, requests/suggestions for new articles, suggestions to name his typewriter, or requests for him to let you touch his typewriter (that’s not a euphemism) may be sent to Max.Z.Warren@gmail.com

In his weekly blog series The Last Generation—really more of a highly flirtatious conversation, littered with innuendo—Max Warren discusses matters of general interest to our generation, frequently quotes things, and spills out the addled contents of a deviant mind.

I come from a truly horrible small town that we’ll call Zion, and tonight, as my mind wanders, it’s the specter haunting my home. Sitting here at my desk, with a Louis C.K. monologue in the background and a gin in reach, I can see it clear as day.

Zion is the kind of small town that too many of us Last Generation kids never escape. Community college and the food-service-industry greedily devour a lot of the town’s youth, ODs get a few more—and then you have the car crashes and occasional suicides to worry about. It’s a bad place, the kind that has a wicked intelligence all its own. And it doesn’t abide deserters. I truly believe that when I go back to Zion for my high school reunion, I’ll be lucky not have a tree fall on my car or to knock up some girl through a Virgin Birth.

But enough of my misty-eyed nostalgia. It occurred to me that a substantial portion of my readership probably comes from a similar version of hell. These blemishes pock-mark America all over. You all know the story; it’s all Americana and bullshit (as covered in my previous column), the suburban wasteland where the houses all look the same and something sinister behind the superficial veneer leads to Xanex-ed adults and disaffected youth. If you’re not from the place, you certainly have friends who are.

Let me be perfectly frank about one thing—I’m thankful to have escaped. I don’t think it was my doing. I chalk it up mainly to good fortune and I know a hundred souls, contemporaries and comrades-in-arms, who didn’t make it out. This isn’t some statement of superiority. I could easily still be there and so could you. But this isn’t an exhortation for Plato to go back into the Cave either. Personally, I can only stomach two trips home a year.

But while I sit here, pondering the place where I grew up, images running through my mind like a montage, it seems important to realize something—if I hadn’t come from there, I certainly wouldn’t be who I am today. Comedian Patton Oswalt comes from a similar place called Sterling, Virginia, and he manages to express the benefits better than your humble writer ever could. Patton is thankful to have come from there because it meant he got to take the Test of the Small Town. You pass it when you say, “I’m leaving this place before I kill myself and everyone around me.” But if you say, “I’m going to get a job at 7-11 and fill my truck up for free!” then you just failed the Test—thanks for coming out.

It’s a striking concept and well-worth considering. As loyal readers, I’m going to assume that you all are, either willingly or else on some deeper level, a part of this Last Generation—the one that’s going to bring about our renaissance. And I think that, as members of our odd Foreign Legion, we all passed that test. And, for the record, I don’t care if you’re still stuck in your wretched hometown or not—it’s the desire to escape, at least intellectually and at best physically—that matters. If that desire burns inside you, and you play carefully and get the necessary bit of luck (without which I’d still be in Zion), then you’ll get right the hell out of there. Onward and upward.

Chuck Palahniuk, in the fantastic novel Rant, describes the places well:

Despite the dreary scenery, it’s all very sexual, these towns. It’s only the individual who attains an early beauty and sexuality who becomes trapped here. The young men and women who acquire perfect breasts and muscles before they know how best to use that power, they end up pregnant and mired so close to home. This cycle concentrates the best genetics in places you’d never imagine….Little nests of wildly attractive idiots who give birth and survive into a long, ugly adulthood. Venuses and Apollos. Small-town gods and goddesses.

His take is harsher on those that stay behind than mine would be, but I think that’s only because I understand that an escape plan takes time to work out—you only get one shot at breaking out of Shawshank and you don’t want to be hasty. One failed attempt and the Town will smell blood. After that, it’s going to keep a much tighter grasp.

As I said, I believe that all readers of these words will make it out of their All-American Hells if they want to and if they haven’t already. But that’s only half the battle and there’s another obstacle ahead: we can’t get sucked back in.

We are currently living in a time where it’s become the norm—far more than ever before—for young adults to move back home after college or graduate school. The reasons are myriad; delayed adulthood, the horrible economy and, really, the world just being such a goddamn lonely place all play a part. And I won’t criticize the decision to do so. But what I will say is this: once we’ve made it out, we have to remember that we don’t belong there anymore. We have to make sure that a visit or a brief recuperation is not the same as a surrender. I think it’s vital that we remember—the past is past for a reason.

Don’t get pregnant and don’t get addicted to pills.

Max may have made a few enemies with this post, particularly among John Cougar Mellencamp fans. He invites friends to use the comment section to praise him and enemies to use it to insult him and his hopes and dreams. He also accepts hate-mail, column-topic ideas and requests for prescription medication at Max.Z.Warren@gmail.com

Hey! Can’t get enough Max Warren madness? Now you can subscribe to his Twitter @MaxWarren3 for updates on blog posts and a whole bunch of late-night drunken quotes and song lyrics.

In his weekly blog series The Last Generation—really more of a highly flirtatious conversation, littered with innuendo—Max Warren discusses matters of general interest to our generation, frequently quotes things, and spills out the addled contents of a deviant mind.

When I was younger, I had a problem with mirrors. I would go out of my way to avoid them, always being sure to keep the medicine cabinet open. The thing of it was, if I looked into one long enough, it really didn’t seem like I was looking at myself anymore. It’s fascinating to me how something as simple as a reflection—really the most accurate portrayal of what you are—can seem so separate.

This got me thinking about identity and the way in which something you really should recognize can appear so alien. Then, because it’s what I do, this got me thinking about the question of identity for this Last Generation of ours.

I recently had an interesting conversation with my friend Rose (a better journalist than I) and she really framed the issue brilliantly:

“I’ve been thinking about us, about our generation, about who we are,” she said. “You call us the ‘last’, yet others call us makers while some dare call us emotionless. All in all, we are oft-talked about, oft-portrayed, but hugely misunderstood. That’s a problem. If we’re going to be the shining future, shouldn’t we create a coherent identity? Or maybe it could be that our lack of self is what will ultimately save us—we’re are each diverse individuals, with something different to offer and if we just accept that we can all settle into our roles peacefully and all will be good in the world.”

It’s an interesting bit of observation and it ends on an optimistic note—a good thing, too, since some have accused your humble writer of cynicism. Rose is right. We are talked about, dissected, portrayed and, without doubt, misunderstood. But I think that those flawed portrayals are part of the disease and not merely symptoms of it. Let me be clear; by disease I mean our own ennui and pallor—like that Danish Prince, we’ve become sicklie’d o’er with the pale cast of thought, too anemic to even understand who we are, much less what we should do.

This diagnosis set me asking, with appropriate urgency, why haven’t we formed a coherent identity and, what’s more, why we accept so passively our lack of one. I wonder this, despite having my own doubts as to whether it’s a common or even a positive thing for a generation to do.

I feel I’ve traced the root of this collective quarter-life crisis. I’ve decided to call it The Great Betrayal because I think it’s the most accurate name possible and, hey, what would a Max Warren column be without an over-dramatic flourish? (Answer: boring as hell.)

Essentially, the Betrayal of the Last Generation was the greatest crime since the cancellations of Firefly and Dollhouse. In our younger and more vulnerable years we were all fed a serious line of bullshit by movies, music videos and television shows. They taught us to believe in a very particular and packaged idea of American young adulthood—an idea that isn’t bearing itself out.

There’s this grand conception of American youth that we’ve all come to know well. MTV and Hollister have sold it to us on one front—where everything is, like, totally awesome—and that god-awful Catcher in the Rye has done it on another, where everyone and everything is phony, except for you because you can be sarcastic about it.

I remember when I was a kid—writing diatribes with crayons and drinking Wild Turkey from a sippy cup—thinking that when I was a teenager life was going to be one big, crazy adventure. There were going to be parties every night and fistfights over girls and, with a bit of luck, I might even race somebody around Dead Man’s Curve.

None of us were stupid and I think we all understood that obviously it wouldn’t, you know, be exactly like The O.C., but it would be of the same general flavor. There would be constant excitement and what we were supposed to want and chase and struggle for would be clear. Most of all there wouldn’t be this nagging, soul-deep doubt, this worry that I firmly believe nags most of us, that we might somehow have missed the boat.

But the truth is, like the sunrise, the city of El Ray or Boozetown, it’s all an illusion, a myth or a dream.

And so here we are, each of us in, or else fast-approaching, our 20s and learning some harsh lessons. We were raised by that big blue box to believe in the Great American Youth Experience and the Epic Romance. Now, the longer it fails to materialize, the more alone and robbed we feel. Allow me to throw a little Doctor Thompson at you (again, courtesy of The Rum Diary) to finish the point:

“I’m not sure,” he replied. “But I have a feeling that I’m following a course that somebody laid out a long time ago – and I have one hell of a lot of company.”

I looked up at the plantain tree and let him go on.

“You’re the same way,” he said. “We’re all going to the same damn places, doing the same damn things people have been doing for fifty years, and we keep waiting for something to happen.” He looked up. “You know – I’m a rebel, I took off – now where’s my reward?”

“You fool,” I said. “There is no reward and there never was.”

That just may be the case. It seems there is no reward, at least in the sense we were brought up to expect. Instead, we will have to look inward for it, and earn it the hard way, rather than just sliding into it with advancing age.

This is no tragedy. The big dream may have been pulled away, just as we reached out our hands to grasp it. The Great Betrayal may have been traumatic and demoralizing. Hell, it may even have turned us a bit cynical and a bit jaded. But I have a message for MTV and all the other purveyors of the lies and half-truths that got us here. I believe it’s better to know the truth than to believe a lie.

We’re all going to be better for the sting. And we’re going to be stronger in the broken places.

Good night, and good luck. 

Max requests that you comment freely so that the bigwigs here at TFP know that you like him. You may also send suggestions for columns, allegations decrying Max as a pinko, and all donations toward the Boozetown capital-raising-initiative to Max.Z.Warren@gmail.com.

Hey! Can’t get enough Max Warren madness? Now you can subscribe to his Twitter @MaxWarren3 for updates on blog posts and a whole bunch of late-night drunken quotes and song lyrics.

In his weekly blog series The Last Generation—really more of a highly flirtatious conversation, littered with innuendo—Max Warren discusses matters of general interest to our generation, frequently quotes things, and spills out the addled contents of a deviant mind.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about what it means to be young and alive. Despite what some readers felt after the last post, in which I outlined the genesis of the term “Last Generation,” my outlook is not one of cynicism, but of cautious optimism. We’ve inherited a world that, in many ways, could not be riper for us to make our mark—that is, because the world is so unrelentingly different from how it has ever been before, we’ve been given our very own tabula rasa.

The trick, then, is for us to not fuck it up.

I can only speak from personal experience—the fount from which my rather astounding worldly wisdom flows—but, with that limitation firmly in mind, I believe that I’ve stumbled across something rather interesting in my Wild Turkey-fueled theorizing. I believe that life can be divided, fairly accurately, into three phases. These can be delineated somewhat by age groupings, but I’m going to use soft estimates and explain them simply as they worked out for me. So, without further palaver, I present to you the Three Phases of Life.

I. Training Montage

For me, this was from about birth until midway through college. During this phase, we’re developing who we are as a person. Naturally, this is subject to some tweaking later, but by and large this is where we lay the large and immovable stones that will serve as our foundation.

Growing up, like everyone else, I tried on many different personalities. There was even a period with blue hair of which I’ve destroyed all evidence—though those familiar with SLC Punk may justly laugh. But despite the ongoing shell game, this was the time when certain seeds were planted that to this day continue to bear fruit.

At 16 I picked a book called This Side of Paradise off a bookshelf–completely by chance–and from that moment I knew that I wanted to be a writer and that nothing else was or would be as important to me. One day, dammit, I’d write better than Fitzgerald. I also discovered a certain political apathy in myself, other than that I was pro-choice and pro-gay-rights. I had a liking for sarcasm and, as high school and college showed, a fundamental aversion to hard work (if it didn’t involve writing), a long with an inability to take anything seriously. These are things about me that have never changed and are as intrinsically a part of my being as the devilish charm and ever-present flask. All of these foundations were firmly laid during the Training Montage.

And Montage, I think, really is the right word. Looking back, I don’t remember the entire period. Instead, it comes in flashes—moments that I didn’t even know had significance until they come to the surface, when the particular lesson they taught or idea they imparted is implicated. Then, almost like muscle-memory, it comes in a flash, and the decision is clear—it’s the only decision that can be made, because, during this first phase, it was already decided.

II. The Big Game

I believe that, after training, when we’ve gotten our bearings and learned to do our barrel rolls, comes The Big Game. This typically begins anywhere during or after college, and stretches on until we’ve settled down—as much as each of us chooses to do, whether it be committing to a career or perpetuating the race by producing of those horrid little creatures known to ruin flights and movies. The Big Game is where we take what we learned in Training, the principles that will flash into our minds at just that moment, and guide and color every important decision we make. This is the Danger Zone. It rewards careful attention, bold action and, of course, one may need to be a bit lucky.

I’m batting about .500 during my own personal Big Game so far. For example, deciding to go to law school was a misstep. It’s put me farther from what I truly want, rather than closer, and looking back is one of the very few life decisions I regret. On the other hand, I redeemed myself, at least somewhat, when I decided not to give up the dream and to plow ahead with the novel in every free instant, no matter how many sleepless nights or bouts of frustration it caused. I wouldn’t trade that torment for all the Paxil in the world and that, I think, is the point. The Big Game is what we’ve all been getting ready for, and I think the difficulty of playing it right can be expressed clearly if you’ll allow me a quotation. Clarence Darrow in Inherit the Wind puts it best:

It’s the loneliest feeling in the world. It’s like walking down an empty street, listening to your own footsteps. But all you have to do is to knock on any door and say ‘if you let me in, I’ll live the way you want me to live and I’ll think the way you want me to think.’ And all the blinds will go up and all the doors will open and you’ll never be lonely, ever again.

Therein lies the danger. It takes something burning to keep a person warm when the decision is put to them like that. But it’s in those moments that I believe it’s most vital to stay true to one’s Training Montage, because next comes…

III. Austerlitz or Waterloo

The final phase. I can only theorize on this one as I haven’t yet crossed that particular line, and so I present it to you with the caveat that it’s subject to tweaking. To me, however, it seems sound in conception, so I drop the idea and pass on.

At some point, all the big, vital, life-shaping decisions will have been made. We have one of two jobs in this phase—we either live with the consequences or we reap the rewards. If we played the Big Game in good faith and weren’t afraid and didn’t shrink from who we are, or lose sight of what we want to be, then its Valhalla for us and all the mead we can drink. If we compromised on the important decision, or learned to be ashamed, then it’s a well-deserved ignominy.

Black and white, perhaps, but I see the danger as real.

And that’s my theory, as it stands. I wrote this in order to say one thing. I truly believe that we have inherited the world and have as many advantages as it would be fair to have. We also have liabilities. And if we’re going to save this world, if we’re going to work towards something greater than the sum of its parts, then I think we all have a responsibility to tend our own gardens first.

In this column I’ve mixed humor and pathos, but now I’m in earnest. I believe that living honestly is the highest virtue. I believe that living insincerely and dishonestly is a crime. And I believe there is place at the trenches for each of our weary hands. So let’s go chase the green light and I’ll see you all at the front.

Until next week. As always, comment freely, flame me and one another, or even tell me something good. Death threats and nudie pics to Max.Z.Warren@gmail.com.

Good night, and good luck.

In his weekly blog series The Last Generation—really more of a highly flirtatious conversation, littered with innuendo—Max Warren discusses matters of general interest to our generation, frequently quotes things, and spills out the addled contents of a deviant mind.

Hello, Gainesville.

My name is Max Warren. As a former Gator (class of ’10 and, of course, an English major) currently self-exiled to the frigid north at Harvard Law, I’ll be your guide—or a whimsical psychopomp, perhaps — on this blog journey we’re about to begin. This blog will update weekly, so I implore you to keep coming back because, if you don’t, I may actually have to go and study law.

So, why title this thing of ours The Last Generation? Well, I assume most of you are passingly familiar with The Lost Generation, but for anyone who wants a refresher, I’ll try to break it down for you old-school without sounding like a 20th Century American Lit professor.

The phrase comes from something crazy old Gertrude “Rose is a rose is a rose” Stein said to Ernest Hemingway, describing his rough-and-tumble band of hard-drinking writers and artists in 1920s Paris. They lacked direction, in a very pressing sense, and pounded back the highballs and the absinthe to make up for it. They also gave us Gatsby, The Sun Also Rises, Picasso’s oeuvre and lots more. They had lived through the horror of WWI. They bore witness to the birth of mechanized war — many firsthand. The world was changing fast around them and the old ideals of honor and bravery didn’t hold their place in this colder, more modern world. What good was a Washington or a Wellington in the face of machine gun fire? They were a generation who had spent years in trenches, waiting to be ordered over the top for a cause they barely understood. Alienation was the hallmark of the times.

And now to us, The Last Generation. I think we share more in common with those forebears than my brilliant play on the name. I think, in the same sense, we lack direction. The world is changing again, and doing it fast. And if we’re not going to be ordered out of the trenches, to be gunned down in No Man’s Land, then at the very least we live under threat as well—more metaphysical, perhaps, but just as unrelenting. The disconnect and the alienation within this colder, more modern world of ours, if not understood, if not used as a catalyst for renaissance, could destroy whatever potential we have to create beautiful things and build a better world.

I believe we occupy what will be a very special place in our cultural history. Those just a bit older than us still don’t understand how all of this new, world-shrinking technology works, and those just a bit younger than us don’t remember a time before it — a time when, in order to hang out with a friend you had to actually leave your house — a time, dare I say it, before Angry Birds. And so that makes us possibly the last chance—and it’s something to be hopeful about, rather than sad about. Because I think we have what it would take to rise to the occasion, if we play it right. And I think we’re the last chance, the last generation that can bring about an intellectual, creative renaissance before we’re all swallowed under. Après nous, le déluge!

There is, as I said, a danger, and it can be seen with the right kind of eyes. We risk losing both the interest in the world around us and the soul with which to make it better. Let me say, before I explain further, that it’s not technology that I’m against (as I compose a blog on my MacBook) and it’s not even technology that I intend to write about. But, I think that the way we use our newest toys is a symptom of this culture and worth considering.

The other day, I saw a seven-year-old girl texting in a way that I can only describe as aggressive—she played that smartphone like a virtuoso. Now please, tell me, who is a 7-year-old texting and–if you can answer that–what can she possibly be texting about? “Hey! Let’s play later!” Is that really worth a texting plan?

Or, more chillingly, there was this conversation I overheard between two girls outside of Library West during my last trip to the homeland.

Girl 1: Well, what do you think? How’re things going with him?

Girl 2: I’m not sure. I mean, I know his parents really like his ex but…you know…they were never Facebook official, so it doesn’t really count.

Honest to God, has it come to this? We all live plugged into our ear-buds and glued to our iPhones and some of that’s fine – the great wonders of technology and all that. But we’ve come to a point where it functions as a barrier between the outside world and ourselves — a time where a relationship obviously had no substance if it wasn’t Facebook official. I’ll bet any taker my first-edition This Side of Paradise that this 7-year-old will never, of her own volition, make a lasting piece of art, read a great book or contribute something of value to the human soul.

This is not a Call to Arms. This is not a neo-Luddite, Tyler Durden rant. And this is not boy-meets-girl and the rest is history, nor murder mystery, nor comeback story. It’s more like a flaming Viking ship, where we all have to get our jollies in before we die. Or maybe it’s a lone voice, echoing on an empty battlefield, with just one bullet in the gun. Maybe it’s me typing on my computer. Whatever. In this first entry, anyway, I just wanted to extend a greeting to all you wonderful readers out there and lay out the barest of bones regarding what the hell I intend to talk about.

I’m going to sign off now because I’m sure your attention span is starting to get depleted (I know mine is) but let me leave you with one little gem. This is brought to you courtesy of Hunter S. Thompson’s The Rum Diary. (Film-based-on-the-book is in theaters now. Go see it.)

Like most of the others, I was a seeker, a mover, a malcontent, and at times a stupid hell-raiser. I was never idle long enough to do much thinking, but I felt somehow that my instincts were right. I shared a vagrant optimism that some of us were making real progress, that we had taken an honest road, and that the best of us would inevitably make it over the top.

At the same time, I shared a dark suspicion that the life we were leading was a lost cause, that we were all actors, kidding ourselves along on a senseless odyssey. It was the tension between these two poles—a restless idealism on one hand and a sense of impending doom on the other—that kept me going.

Words to consider, at the very least. And now I’m off. I invite any who have thoughts, criticisms or even compliments to utilize the comment section. Particularly vicious hate mail, offers to buy the writer a drink, or requests for specific topics can be sent to Max.Z.Warren@gmail.com.

Here’s looking at you, kids.