Biting the Hand that Feeds
by Scott Hefflon
illustration by Eric Johnson
It’s a good idea to get behind those you don’t want to stand in front of.
They say the ’80s are coming back. They also said the ’90s were going to make the ’60s look like the ’50s, but that was just Dennis Hopper in some movie with Kiefer Sutherland. But, for once, I look forward to the regurgitation of the ’80s. Look at it this way; we survived the brats of the baby boom, the yuppified, me-first, sue-first-and-ask-questions-later money-grubbing scum of the ’80s. And some of us were young enough to not get so tainted as to believe that money and status were everything. Some of us were so immersed in the fringe drug culture and bimbo-fucking, hard-livin’ lifestyle that we barely noticed we’d developed a helluva work ethic in the process. When the motto is “kill or be killed, sell your grandmother’s plot to the highest bidder, and whup the Jones’ asses at all costs,” you scarcely realize you picked up the traits of survival, even though most of the latter part of the decade was a drunken blur. When you turned inward, as did most of the repentant possession-and-status seekers, you studied Zen and the Art of Not Killing People. And in so doing, you learned to control your megalomaniac tendencies, at least as far as the post-hippie kids were concerned. You had an edge, sure, but the granola-eating health freaks all thought it was natural strength in your character, not a deep-seated will to power. The corruption of ’80s greed made you strong, made you resilient to the degradations of the soulless, because you knew you had not only the same deep rooted desire to conquer and rule, but you’d contemplated the methods of madness both internal and external and were prepared to dicker terms with the Powers That Be.
But when speaking of resuscitating the ’80s, one must ask, “What was there of value in the ’80s that’s any more valid than in the ’90s?” The answer, or at least the one of many that suits this discussion, is power. The ’90s are as limp-wristed as a receiving fag. In this case, take, take, take, is not meant as a condemnation of greed. Introspection is a wondrous development, to be sure – not since the ’60s when the doors of perception were actually beginning to open has there been so much hope for a generation. But that generation co-opted itself before it ever had the opportunity to realize itself. It bought its artifacts back from savvy merchandisers, and then quoted the slogans of the media in their sleep. They bought into the packaging, but never thought to try on the outfit and check the return policy. As the inward-looking pseudo-sages lost focus, a generation consumed what they’d already created. They ate their own shit.
Therefore, by the tail end of the ’90s, it’s no wonder the rumblings of the great commerce machine can be heard on the horizon. But, my aged friends, beware – the new breed of ’80s-inspired savagery shall be drastically unlike the naive glamour frenzy of the past. This crossbreed of slouching minimalism and quest for consumption is stronger, sharper, and faster than the combination of its parts. At least the best of the bunch are. Think of it: weaned on blind ambition, driven to exile and self-exploration, these creatures now have a focus and drive, not to mention a higher purpose, than any they’ve come up against. That is, of course, if they can stop shredding one another on the climb up, and quit bickering in the antechambers about archaic mindsets. The wizened old men chuckle as the young piranha eat each other, mindless of the almost helpless feast standing as still as they can. A generation attracted to motion devours its own as its elders – fat, slow, and somewhat fearful – wait quietly in the shadows.But there is a weakness in the ’90s that makes the children’s bones brittle. They have no history. They have the thoughtful trait, at least the good ones do, but they lack the guilt of prior decadence. So in “returning” to ’80s selfish desires, the children have not the depravity to stand up to the sharks who’ve never stopped killing. And that’s where the mavericks come in. Some may’ve called them misfits or leftovers, those who busily chewed their own flesh off trying to unshackle their inexperience and start maiming the wardens, but when thoughtful ’90s children start getting their pudgy asses kicked, they’ll realize they have to unleash the Doers. Not as in Dewar’s, the booze that markets itself through yuppified coming-of-age nostalgia, but Doers as in the ravenous post-thrill-seekers who’ve been imprisoned in denial or impoverishment since their youth. While older, and admittedly less healthy than their younger counterparts, these late-twentysomething adrenaline-junkies have been burning with the desire to kill since they were taught how. In their isolation, the Doers have reflected on all that has transpired, and those that have not joined the ranks of the enemy or died by their own hands, are fueled by an intelligence, an awareness, and a hatred the likes of which few have witnessed. An upbringing of violence, a decade of being beaten and quietly licking wounds, plotting the demise of the oppressors – these are the Doers. The ones who’ll turn the tide. They, certainly, are not to be trusted in the long run, but they have no aspirations of running for long. The race is short, bloody, and glorious. Welcome to the Millennium.
