Generation X: Tales For An Accelerated Culture By Douglas Coupland

“Everyone’s such a mess. Nobody turned out normal.”

When selecting titles for this space, I try to think of “young adult” in as expansive a way possible: not just as a marketing category as to who publishers thought would read a book, but also who was actually reading the books- it is the one point I have been (very, very rarely) taken to task for over the past 12 years: “__________ (book and/or author) isn’t YA!”

I was finishing up Coupland’s book while in the midst of a totally unrelated research project when I came across a quote from the great Samuel Z. Arkoff, longtime head of  American-International Pictures, on the (non-AIP) Beach Party movie For Those Who Think Young (1964), a project financed by PepsiCo, featuring  heavy product placement and using Pepsi’s new slogan as its title: “What kid would go to see a film called For Those Who Think Young?”

What self-respecting 20-something in 1991 would want to be labeled “Generation X”? I mean, possibly none, but it strikes me both in concept and content as something that would be regarded as aspirational by the younger members of that cohort, the teenagers.

I was 13 in 1991 and definitely did not read Generation X upon its initial publication. In fact, I picked it up suspecting that it was one of those things that was more talked-about than actually-read. The contemporary reviews I was able to find are pretty thin (and notably Kirkus was pretty dismissive); I could not locate a New York Times review at all, only a flurry of interviews with an annoyed-sounding Coupland in the mid-90s, after sales had picked up, declaring that Generation X is dead.

I was pleasantly surprised, in this brave new millennium, that it is a very enjoyable read. A lot of media and storytelling that was hailed as revolutionary 30 years ago has not aged well (I am looking at you, Pulp Fiction-The Usual Suspects double feature). The copy I ended up with is a UK reprint from 1996, so one of the blurbs is from the Mail on Sunday, pointing out that the book has “an affection for its characters which lifts it above the level of such as Bret Easton Ellis…” and I think that is what wins me over. Coupland’s characters are very likable, sometimes in spite of themselves.

The main characters are a trio of twentysomethings that have fled big cities for a low-effort life in a decaying version of Palm Springs: atomic conspiracy buff and half-hearted anarchist Dagmar (from Toronto); neurotic-romantic Los Angeleno Claire; and everydude/reader surrogate/Coupland stand-in Andy (from the not-yet-cool Pacific Northwest). They are all refreshingly self-aware: their various obsessions and foibles are faintly ridiculous, and they know and accept this. All are from large families, and a close reading reveals that they are not even actually Generation X as it is currently defined (those born between 1965 and 1980, with Baby Boomer parents). Like Coupland, they were all born in the early 1960s, of what he terms “Depression Era” parents.

Stylistically, the prose is in the sarcastic, “ironic” style that allegedly fell out of favor after 9/11. Andy’s narration opens with his worry that his two dogs have been digging through the dumpster behind the liposuction clinic:

How they manage to break into the California state regulation coyote-proof red plastic flesh disposal bags is beyond me. I guess the doctors are being naughty or lazy. Or both. This world. I tell you.

The nominal structure (it’s a stretch to call it a ‘plot’) is divided into three parts; the first involves Andy, Dag and Claire wandering the desert in between shifts at their dead-end jobs, telling one another a series “bedtime stories”, increasingly surreal tales about their lives before they came to Palm Springs. I am resisting the urge to say anything beyond that, because this is a very short book and I do not want to deny you the pleasures of actually reading it.

In the second part, the supporting characters are introduced, including Tobias, the object of Claire’s doomed affections, a yuppie slimebag that she can’t quit because he’s so physically attractive (despite this, I could only picture John Glover at the height of his ponytail-dirtbag prowess); Elvissa the retro-babe, so named for her extremely impressive pompadour hairstyle (real name: Catherine) who works with Claire at I. Magnin and has a sideline doing in-home demonstrations of “aloe products”; and finally Tyler, Andy’s much younger and parentally coddled brother, an acquisitive “Global Teen”:

How cliquish are these Global Teens? It really boggles. Not one of them can go to Waikiki for a simple one-week holiday, for example, without several enormous gift-laden send-offs in one of three classic sophomoric themes: Tacky Tourist, Favorite Dead Celebrity or Toga.

“The Tyler Set” can be really sucky, too- no drugs, no irony and only moderate booze, popcorn, cocoa and videos on Friday nights. And elaborate wardrobes- such wardrobes!

And they can afford them because, like most Global Teen princes and princesses, they all live at home, unable to afford what few ludicrously overpriced apartments exist in the city. So, their money goes on their backs.

Tyler’s fellow Global Teens include Bill-cubed (“three of Tyler’s friends, all named Bill”) and the World Trade Center (“the Morrissey twins, each standing six feet six inches”).

While even these minor characters get redeemed (soulless yuppie Tobias timidly participates in the gang’s bedtime stories, relating an anecdote that may in fact prove he has a soul; after a series of improbable events Elvissa ends up finding her calling in a convent), Andy and Tyler get the most satisfying side-trip, as Andy returns to ancestral Portland for Christmas, where his parents’ house remains permanently stuck in 1975:

No matter how hard you try, you can never be more than twelve years old with your parents. Parents try earnestly not to inflame, but their comments contain no scale and a strange focus.

Both his parents and brother are concerned about what Andy is doing with his life (not much) and offer very specific advice on the subject (“Dietary aluminum is your gateway to Alzheimer’s disease.” “Weirdos named Beehive or Fiber Bar never make middle management.”).

Andy reevaluates his brother on a brief stop at the Garden of Solace Vietnam War memorial on the way back to the airport, when Tyler reveals himself to be deeply anxious about the possibility that his older brother might mysteriously vanish, along with a very Millennial dread for the future:

“If you, oh, I don’t know, disappeared or something, I don’t know if I could deal with it.”

“God, Tyler, I’m not going anywhere. I promise. Chill, okay?”

“Just don’t leave me behind. That’s all- it looks as if I enjoy what’s going on with my life and everything, but listen, my hearts only half in it… And it scares me that I don’t see a future. And I don’t understand this reflex of mine to be such a smartass about everything. It really scares me. I may not look like I’m paying attention to anything, Andy, but I am.”

The third part of the book picks up after the holidays and the trio’s return to Palm Springs. And this is really the point where a cohesive plot closes in: Dag’s unfocused and petty acts of vandalism results in the (accidental) destruction of a car, which is witnessed by the local wino. The owner of the car turns out to be a beloved local institution, Bunny Hollander, who has also hired Dag and Andy as cater-waiters for his next big party in the style of Andy Warhol/Joan Crawford. Dag: “Too bad about his car. Wish it was someone I didn’t like.”

The party’s over when the cops show up to take Dag in for questioning, and he goes quietly.

Not until he wakes up the following afternoon does Andy learn what really happened: the wino had been hit by a car the night before, and the police found a number of notes addressed to Dag:  “these demented letters written to me, telling me how he was going to make me burn just like that car and so forth”; the police assume the wino was the arsonist and (“Quelle good fortune!”) Dag is off the hook, although he and Claire have taken the precaution of fleeing to Mexico to start a new life; they instruct Andy to withdraw his savings and join them in San Felipe.

In the final pages, Andy witnesses what he believes is a nuclear apocalypse on the California border (it’s not), has a too-close encounter with an egret, and seems to acknowledge that he’s starting his whole life over again with the same people, the same circumstances and in only a slightly different place.

WHAT DOES IT ALL MEAN? I assume 35 years on there has been a lot of analysis (even the Wikipedia entry for the book manages to work in a theory that everyone represents a different geographic area); but I think it still works on its own terms, as a series of absurdist sketches about amusing people and situations. I think if I had read it at 13, I would have enjoyed it- it has just enough plot in the final act that my very literal-minded 8^th grade-self wouldn’t have gotten pissed off about it.

And I have to say a few words about the physical form of the actual book, which the Kirkus review especially focuses on. Originally published in an oversized format with a Day-Glo cover, it is extremely postmodern (ha-ha remember “postmodern”). Each of the chapters has an advertising slogan (or demotivational poster)-like title (“The Sun Is Your Enemy”, “Shopping Is Not Creating”, “Adventure Without Risk is Disneyland”) and scattered throughout text at random are a number of satirical definitions. At least one (“McJob”) came into general use, but my favorite is “Cryptotechnophobia: the secret belief that technology is more of a menace than a boon”, which I think of as a defining Generation X characteristic. Alongside the definitions are a number of single-panel comics and what the younger generations would immediately identify as “memes”: text graphics with slightly more sincere directives (“You Must Choose Between Pain And Drudgery”, “Economy Of Scale Is Ruining Choice”). And finally, Coupland gives us an appendix of “Numbers” featuring downbeat statistics on inflation, the environment, and general dissatisfaction with the state of the world.

Which I imagine seemed pretty bleak in 1990… but honestly what bummed me out even more was the advertisements inserted at the end of the book, for (wait for it) Infinite Jest and Sex and the City, a literary reminder that it was fun to revisit the 90s but I definitely don’t want to live there.