I ❤️ Gen Z

I’m 69 years old, and something very strange has happened to me.

I fucking love Gen Z.

I didn’t see this coming.

At 69, I’m supposed to be complaining about them.

“These kids today!”

Their phones. Their tattoos. Their pronouns. Their music.

I’m supposed to be sitting somewhere eating at 4:30 in the afternoon going,

“Nobody wants to work anymore!”

Instead, I’m hanging around 25-year-olds thinking:

“I like these motherfuckers.”

Because the more I talk to Gen Z, the more I realize—

these kids have been handed a tremendous amount of shit.

They grew up with the internet.

Think about that.

When I was a teenager, if I did something stupid, six people knew about it.

And three of them were drunk.

Gen Z does something stupid at 14—

it’s archived forever.

Your first girlfriend dumps you?

We cried in our bedroom.

Gen Z gets dumped and the entire fucking planet gets analytics.

“Your heartbreak received 14,000 views, 312 likes, and Trevor shared it.”

Thanks, Trevor.

And these kids grew up comparing themselves to everybody.

Every beautiful person.

Every rich person.

Every successful person.

Twenty-four hours a day.

When I was 22, the only person I compared myself to was the guy standing next to me at the urinal.

And even then—

I tried not to look.

Then they get a pandemic.

School shuts down.

Everything shuts down.

Then they come out of that and we tell them:

“Okay! Welcome to adulthood!”

They say, “Great! I’d like to buy a house.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“How about an apartment?”

“Still fuck yourself.”

“Can I have some groceries?”

“Absolutely. That’ll be $183.”

“For what?”

“You bought blueberries.”

And then you’ve got my generation looking at them saying:

“Why aren’t you kids having children?”

Have children?

They’re splitting Netflix with six people.

So I started listening to them.

And that’s the important part.

Not talking.

Listening.

Because I’ve got 69 years of experience.

I’ve survived three cancers.

I’ve been married twice.

I’ve raised kids.

I’ve had careers.

I’ve succeeded.

I’ve failed.

I’ve made money.

I’ve lost money.

I’ve been scared shitless.

I’ve made decisions so stupid that I should have had a helmet on while making them.

So naturally, you’d think I have a lot to teach a 25-year-old.

And I do.

But here’s what surprised me:

They have a lot to teach me.

And I don’t want to become Gen Z.

God, no.

I’m not walking into a coffee shop tomorrow wearing a crop top saying,

“No cap, this latte is bussin’.”

Somebody call my children.

Grandpa’s having an episode.

I don’t need to talk like them.

I don’t need to dress like them.

I don’t need to understand every word they use.

Somebody told me recently something was “giving.”

I said:

“Giving what? I already paid for the drinks.”

But I love the way they question things.

Why do we do this?

Why do we work like this?

Why do relationships have to look like that?

Why can’t I change careers?

Why can’t I talk about how I feel?

Why do I have to spend my entire life doing something I hate because somebody in 1957 decided that’s what adulthood looks like?

And I’m standing there thinking:

Those are pretty fucking good questions.

Because when I was their age, we didn’t question nearly enough.

We had a system.

You graduated.

Got a job.

Got married.

Bought a house.

Had children.

Worked 40 years.

Retired.

Moved to Florida.

Played golf.

Died.

That’s the brochure.

I hate golf.

So apparently I’ve been off-plan for quite some time.

And here’s where I think my generation and Gen Z can actually help each other.

I have something they don’t have.

Mileage.

I’ve been down some roads.

And I’ve hit some potholes.

I’ve driven straight into a few fucking buildings.

But I’m still here.

Three cancers taught me something that I wish I’d understood at 25:

Most of the shit you’re terrified of—

never happens.

And some of the shit you never imagined—

does.

That’s life.

You don’t control the whole thing.

You just keep moving.

But I don’t want to walk up to a 25-year-old and say:

“Sit down, young person. Let me explain life.”

Because there’s nothing a 25-year-old enjoys more than a 69-year-old explaining the fucking universe.

They’ve already got YouTube.

So instead, I tell stories.

Here’s what happened to me.

Here’s where I screwed up.

Here’s what worked.

Here’s what didn’t.

Here’s what cancer taught me.

Here’s what divorce taught me.

Here’s what raising children taught me.

Here’s what being 69 and starting over taught me.

Take whatever helps.

Throw the rest away.

Because I’m beginning to think that’s what generations are supposed to do for each other.

Not lecture each other.

Not blame each other.

Trade information.

I’ll tell you what I learned from 69 years of being alive.

You explain why I need Venmo.

I’ll tell you how to survive heartbreak.

You explain why everyone on Threads wants to sell me cryptocurrency.

I’ll tell you that your life probably isn’t over because you fucked something up at 24.

And you remind me that my life isn’t over because I’m 69.

That’s a pretty good trade.

And maybe that’s why I feel this connection with Gen Z.

I’m not trying to be their father.

I’m certainly not trying to be their grandfather.

I’m just another human being who’s further down the road.

And I can turn around occasionally and say:

“Hey! Watch out for that fucking hole!”

And sometimes they’ll yell back:

“John! You’re walking toward another one!”

And they’re right.

Because here’s the great secret I’ve discovered at 69:

You don’t eventually figure everything out.

That’s bullshit.

You just get better at being confused.

So maybe Gen Z and I aren’t that different after all.

We’re both looking at this crazy world thinking:

“What the fuck is going on?”

I’ve just been asking the question—

for 44 years longer.