Generational Problem-Solving

Atop the Stoa this night we will be looking at how the various Generations deal with adversity. Though everyone responds to stress and life's curve balls differently, there is enough of a broad agreement within a generation to demonstrate the appropriate response.

This is the third Moderator installment and they will continue coming as long as my daughter continues "occupy" the Stoa and play the "daddy" card.

The Moderator surveys his auditorium with a hand on the gauze pad that has been wrapped around the back of his head.

The generational booths have been reinstalled. The protest signs and Obama stickers have been swept and scrapped off the seats, floor, and even the side of his moderator's podium.

A few other goodies have been installed since the armed insurrection the night before. Who would've thought that simple question and answer sessions would prove to be so dangerous.

Returning are the full spectrum of living Generations. The super-elderly GI generation, most of which are 80+ and up. The Silent Generation, the Boomers, the Gen X'ers, the Millennials, and the Homelanders.

The crowd fills in as the generational guests arrive. The elderly GI's roll in with their nurses and helper monkeys. This time, the monkeys are wearing diapers with suspenders. No poo flinging tonight, by God.

The two Silents arrived, elderly as well, yet seemingly with vigor yet. The one next to the GI had a walker, a track suit, and gray, slicked hair. The one next to the Boomer was wearing an older leather jacket and too tight jeans. His hair was shoe- polish black and too thin to form a proper Pompadour. Instead it looked like a shrunken soufflé that fell over into a bad comb over.

There was the Boomer-yuppie next. Just as with the other night, he had a Blue Tooth budding out of his ear. His hair was more gray then peppered, but groomed expensively. His suit was high end and fit his athletic frame professionally. Next to him was the same hippy from the the other night. Smoke seemed to ooze out from his box like it was from a Halloween fog machine. Stagehands were already setting up air circulators to pull the foul oder away from the crowd and the elderly among the panel. He seemed perplexed about the lack of donuts and about the opera that we was seeing, since he was sitting in a theater box.

Next to him was the older Gen X'er. Graying hair and scraggly facial hair, he was a working professional. He worked hard, played hard, and only donated to charity when felt like it. Usually, he helped a single individual or small group that he could help with no intermediate organization to dole it out. The younger Gen X'er did not look a whole lot different, other than having less gray hair. They were dressed similarly and had the same patient, resigned look to their faces.

Both of the Millennials had changed. Apparently they had both moved on to other things having already sucked the enjoyment out of the first forum.

The elder Millennial was dressed in the latest fashion. Not quite a suit, not quite casual wear. It looked nice but was indicative of social standing or professionalism. Though the Moderator could not know for sure, the average Millennial of this age had already worked 11 jobs with 6 or more companies. The only thing constant about this generation was the pace of change. Fast and frenetic. They were soldiers and scientists. Great people of courage and optimism. If any generation launched a mission to Mars it would be these kids. The shadows of the GI generation.

Next to him, was the first woman on the panel. This Millennial looked like a scrawny 17 year old with only half the number of appropriate teeth. She had dark circles under her eyes and her hair was mid-length and stringy. He could hear her trying to talk to the older Millennial who was doing his best to be polite but was paying little attention to her. He doubted he could understand her, the West Virginia accent was so very thick.

Next to her were the Homelanders. They alternated in making fun of the younger Millennial and each other. Though they were years apart, the two Homelanders acted the same. Poorly. They were boisterous, talking, shoving and beeping. He could not hear a coherent or complete sentence being spoke between the two or to the endless number of people they seemed connected to on the Internet.

The Moderator looked back at the crowd. Not a purple shirt among them. That was a relief.

He cleared his throat and pulled out the first card.

"Tonight I will read out a situation or condition and you tell us how you would deal with it." The Moderator said.

"Your car has broken down on a country road and you are alone. What would you do?"

The GI's look at each other. The younger one taps the older one's wheelchair. The older one takes a hit from his O2 tank and says, "First, I turn on the hazard lights and then tie a handkerchief to the ariel. I then pop the trunk and the hood and get my tools out. If someone happens by and can help, then I'm sure they will. I'd get it working again in no time.

The two Silents also exchange glances, indicating a similar reaction. The younger one speaks up, "I'd just get to work on the problem and fix anything else that seems wrong. I don't seem to think that this is that difficult of a question to answer."

The older Boomer puts his call on hold, "We'll, I'd call AAA and have them come get me right away. I would then look over the warranties for the parts and labor of all the work I've had on the car and there will be Hell to pay if it is not covered." With a click he gets back on his Blue Tooth, muttering something about how his car would never break down for what he'd paid for it.

The hippy squints behind his glasses and says, "There's something wrong with my car? I didn't know I had a car, man."

"You need help." The Moderator says.

The older of the Gen X'ers leans back in his chair. "I'd take a look at the car and if it wasn't a simple fix I'd call a tow truck or a friend and then kick back and take a nap while I wait. No big deal."

The younger of the Gen X'ers says, "I'd just call a friend since I can't afford a tow truck." It was a short answer but it seemed to cover it.

The older Millennial chuckles, "The question is not good since I never drive alone anywhere. I'm always with my friends. If something did happen to my car, the next guy coming along will help us to get it fixed. With all of us there we'd be able to figure out the problem and fix it with no trouble. We kept our Hummers going after being shot up, didn't we?"

"YOU LEAVE MY CAR ALONE!", the younger Millennial screeches. "NO REPO MAN BORN CAN TAKE MY CAR!"

"Ok, then, moving on."

"Homelanders, what do you think?" The Moderator asks.

A whine rips out of the box and a model monster truck jumps out of the box and flies over the Meth-head Millennial. Before landing it is blasted into a hundred parts by a double blast of buck shot.

"YOU LITTLE BASTARDS, I'LL KILL YOU FOR DRIVING IN MY LAWN!" The skinny woman screams. A moment later a feathered dart hits her in the side of the neck. She reloads and takes aim at the Moderator but before she can pull the triggers again, the tranquilizer FINALLY overwhelms her drug resistant body and she goes down on one knee, seemingly calmer.

"Strange, that should have put you to sleep for a week."

The Moderator shuffles the deck and pulls another card.

"Moving on."

"Your pet has died. How do you tell your children?"

The GI clears his throat and rasps, "It happens. It will happen. Pitch it in a hole and get another if you want. I don't care."

"Touching," the Moderator says.

The older Silent explains patiently about how every living thing goes to heaven and that they will all be waiting for them on the other side. The younger Silent nods his agreement.

The older Boomer again puts his call on hold, "I'd throw the little rat in the toilet and flush away. The brat can get another it they want. I'd also tell him that when you are dead you are dead and that it the end of that."

The hippie pops a pill and pulls a toke of his cigar, "No, man, everything is tied to the universe. We all become something else, man. We are all one in the...I can see my lips, man."

The older of the X'ers says, "I'd give it a funeral and let the kid deal with it in his own way. Not much else you can do." The younger one shrugs his approval.

The older Millennial gets a solemn and serious demeanor. He says, "we would have a wake for the poor creature. We would make a monument and a YouTube video celebrating the pet's life....

"MAY' GOLDFISH IS DEAD?!" The younger Millennial screams with horror in her voice. In rapid succession, two more darts her. One in the shoulder and one in her hip. The one in her hip, however, hits bone because of her lack of fat and muscle, but the first dart was enough to get her back into her seat, her breath calming.

The younger Homelanders begin to look sad but then say almost in unison, "we want another, get us another, why aren't you getting us another!"

Letting out his breath, the Moderator pulls the next card.

"You are gaining weight and your significant other is unhappy, what do you think?"

The GIs chuckle, "Don't much care. I'll eat what I want and as much of it as I want."

The Silents look at each other and then the older one says, "We follow whatever the doctors tell us to. I know things change and fads come and go, but if it is what science and the government tell us is good then it must be good. My wife would never be upset with my weight because we would be eating and dieting together."

"Exciting," the Moderator says.

"I eat out a lot and if I put on a few pounds I just work it off in the gym. No problem. If my wife doesn't like it I'll just get myself another wife. Again, no problem. I've already been married 5 times."

The hippie takes a white pill and then a green pill. He washes them down with whiskey and then puts his feet up on the podium box.

"Moving on," the Moderator says.

Both of the Gen X'ers pat their growing 40'ish paunches and shrug, "Everybody leaves, sooner or later. She won't be happy with just 20 lbs. After that it will be something else and then something else."

"Inspiring," the Moderator says.

The older Millennial, a strapping, strong veteran of war puffs out his chest, "I'd never let myself go like that so the question is pointless. Anyhow, I keep my entire daily dietary record here on my iPad."

The younger Millennial puts her finger down her throat and vomits all down the front of her podium. "I'M FAHT I'M FAHT I'M FAHT" This time, the older Millennial injects her with a yellow fluid from an auto syringe. She staggers, bile dripping of her chin, "SOM'BITCH" and then goes down like a pile of nasty rags.

"EEEEWWW", comes the noise from the Homelander box, followed by them vomiting all over their box, each other, and down the sides of the podium.

"Good lord!"

The Moderator hits a button on his podium and two stagehands come out and begin hosing down the kids and their box. He thought he'd have to use it stop a fight, not clean out puke.

"Final question....thank God."

"Who slid this question in here?" He says after looking the card over.

"Boxers or Briefs. Which to you prefer?" He shook his head. This was a sophomoric question asked of then candidate Bill Clinton. He preferred boxers.

"The only briefs I know of are the kind you read." Responds the GIs.

"Briefs are the latest fad. We've worn them for decades." The elder one chides the younger GI.

"If you want kids you better wear boxers," the younger Silent says. "I've got four, dumb-ass" "Sure they are yours," comes the retort.

A scuffle between 75 year olds ensues. In. Slow. Motion.

After a few half swings and slaps, they drop into their chairs winded. The monkeys are jumping up and down, excited by the activity.

The older Boomer speaks up, "Boxer, of course. You'd never catch me in a brief."

The Hippie, in a moment of lucidity says, "boxers? Are those a kind of underwear? If so then no. No boxers, no briefs. I'm just the way nature intended me...wow, look at my hands."

The older X'er says, "I've got both and I wear whatever is clean." The younger X'er shrugs his agreement.

The older Millennial starts to open his mouth only to be smothered by spindly arms and legs of the younger Millennial who seems to be trying to climb to the top of his head.

"YOU LEAVE MAH THONG ALONE! YOU GET AWAY FROM ME!"

A poo filled diaper hits her square in the face and knocks her backwards. The two Homelanders begin puking at the stench again. They've started crying for their mothers to come and make everything right again.

The Moderator ducked as a second diaper flew over his shoulder and nailed a stagehand in the back of the head.

With a cry of irritation the Moderator slaps his hand on a button. Glass partitions spring up around the podium boxes and they begin to fill with a gas that is heavier than air.

I short order the Generations are obscured from view.

The Moderator turns to the crowd, "It is just a knock out gas. Please file out of the auditorium and enjoy the rest of your night.

The glass barrier drops and the vapors are carried away by the air system.

Everyone is slumped in their chairs except for the Hippie, who continues to puff away on his "cigar" as if nothing is happening.

With a roar, the younger Millennial springs from her booth, unaffected by the knock out gas. "YOU SOM'BITCH, I'LL KILL YOU!"

The Moderator is able to get his hands up just as she is about to land on him.

With that, we close this story. It is fun to imagine just how the different generations handle things. Some cry, other get angry. Others just take adversity as yet another part of their day to endure.

How has yours been?

Live well.

--Zavost