A generational thing

Katy Perry is banned from Sesame Street, Gaga dons raw meat and rallies against homophobia, and Lindsay Lohan revisits the slammer in cuffs. This year’s Sleaze Ball may be the last, and a Melbourne hacker triggers a global Twitter scare.
Prepare yourself for Facebook, the movie.

Most of this may be inconsequential to older generations. And a recent visit to Mum’s place reminded me of a great number of generational variants.

Mum enjoys her crosswords. She takes cheques to the post office, and inspects the brochures for specials. I still can’t convince her to get a mobile. She wouldn’t dream of hiring a cleaner, and prefers the bus to paying a cabbie — even if she nearly kills herself in the process.

Younger gens are happy to pay for convenience. Time is money. You won’t catch me cleaning an oven any time soon. And I can‘t remember the last time I went to a post office.

Mum chats to just about every shop assistant, savouring a cappuccino in her travels. Grocery shopping for me is a hurried affair. If I’m not cyber-shopping, it’s no more than 15 minutes in and out. And while we’re inclined to jump online for info, older gens might reach for the faithful encyclopaedia.

Maybe it’s the evening chardy speaking, but despite my exasperation with certain old-school customs, there’s something comforting about the uncomplicated routines and homespun pragmatism.

Instead of trying to convince ‘the olds’ that our way is faster and better, maybe they’re content with things the way they are. Maybe it’s not a matter of right and wrong. Maybe it’s just personal preference — a generational thing. Although Mum does have her eye on the MacBook Pro. Bless.

I’ll totally squander hours scouting for the closest restaurant doing home delivery. Meanwhile, Mum’s likely to have whipped up a stroganoff with ingredients bought at half price from “that nice chap at Coles”.

And so, dear readers, don’t dismiss all oldies as dithering old fossils. Whatever your generational ilk, they can be quite a wealth of knowledge. Remember, they have lived a lifetime before us.

Nevertheless, I don’t do ovens. And I may still rock up to Sleaze Ball in handcuffs and raw meat.

Vive la différence!