Something has happened to me recently that I did not see coming.
I’m 69 years old, and I think I’ve developed a genuine kinship with Gen Z.
Which is fucking weird.
Because I’m supposed to hate these people.
That’s apparently how generations work.
Old people look at young people and say:
“These kids are destroying America.”
And young people look at old people and say:
“Could you hurry up?”
But I’ve been spending time around Gen Z lately.
Talking to them.
Doing stand-up in front of them.
Listening to them.
And I’ve discovered:
I fucking love these kids.
Not because I agree with everything they think.
I don’t.
And they sure as hell aren’t going to agree with everything I think.
That’s the point.
They ask questions.
“Why are we doing it this way?”
“Who decided this was normal?”
“Why can’t we change it?”
And I’m sitting there at 69 thinking:
“You know what? That’s a pretty damn good question.”
Because I come from a completely different world.
When I was their age, there was no internet.
No Instagram.
No Threads.
No TikTok.
If somebody didn’t like you in 1978, you know what happened?
They didn’t like you.
That was it.
You didn’t get a notification.
Nobody commented.
Nobody shared it.
And there certainly wasn’t an algorithm spending the next three weeks reminding you:
“Just checking in, John. Remember when Susan thought you were an asshole?”
Gen Z grew up inside that machine.
Every opinion.
Every photograph.
Every mistake.
Every relationship.
Everything is online.
And that’s why I don’t buy this idea that young people somehow have life
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