I started replying to a friend about sneaking peeks at Playboy magazines in the recycling container behind the train station. You know, like a normal childhood memory. Somehow that turned into… this.

Because here’s the thing: life was better when you had to work for your smut.

Dad’s hidden stash.
The barber shop coffee table.
A suspiciously wrinkled centerfold found in a recycling trailer like it was contraband from a Cold War spy drop.

That was it. That was the internet.

Now? Kids can see everything. Instantly. In 4K. With algorithms. There’s no mystery, no effort, no story to tell later. Just, “Yeah, I saw that. And that. And that too.” Tragic.

Which brings me to my full transformation into Grumpy Old Man Who Needs to Sit Down.

Yo, Gen Z and Millennials: Shut Up for a Second

I say this with love. Sort of.

Less is more.
Slow down.
Stop declaring that everything sucks.

It doesn’t. It really, really doesn’t.

You are living with a higher standard of living than any generation before you, and it’s not even close.

You have phones with more computing power than the Apollo rockets that put humans on the moon. Meanwhile, I had the World Book Encyclopedia, 1977 edition, and if the volume you needed was missing, congratulations—you’re bullshitting that essay.

We had:

• Three TV networks (and I’m so old I still don’t count Fox)
• Shows that ended when the station literally went off the air at midnight
• Black-and-white TVs
• No computers
• No spellcheck
• No autocomplete
• No grammar checker
• Definitely no AI

If a paper had to be typed, it meant a typewriter. No backspace. No undo. One typo meant either Wite-Out or starting the entire thing over. Took hours. Character building hours.

Food, Travel, and the Audacity

I ate at McDonald’s maybe twice a year. That was a big deal.
Now people DoorDash daily and then complain about it.

My birthday dinner—if I got to choose—was pizza. Except I usually didn’t, because I shared a birthday with my grandmother and my dad decided she wouldn’t want pizza. To this day, we call this experience “getting Timber’d,” named after the restaurant I was forced to attend annually.

I didn’t leave the country on my own until my honeymoon.
Meanwhile, I’m watching people complain about student loans from a hike in Machu Picchu.

Make it make sense.

Also: Progress. Massive, Obvious Progress.

Let’s talk about the stuff that actually matters.

• People don’t drop dead from heart attacks at 55 like they used to
• AIDS is no longer a death sentence
• Early detection for cancer saves lives daily
• Mental health is talked about openly
• Gay rights and civil rights have advanced enormously
• There has literally never been a better time in U.S. history to be a minority (yes, still work to do—but perspective matters)

Medicine alone is a miracle compared to 30–40 years ago.  (yes, I know medical costs are up, but thanks to Medicare/Medicaid/Obamacare there are options)

But sure, tell me again how everything is terrible.

Starting Out Is Supposed to Suck

Yes, houses cost more.
Yes, student loans are brutal.

But those are choices, and choices used to come with consequences. Back in my day, that was kind of the deal.

I lived in a tiny apartment next to the L. No AC. Windows open.
It shook every 15 minutes like Elwood’s apartment in The Blues Brothers.

I didn’t complain.
I loved it.
It was independence. It was mine.  We didn’t bitch about “adulting” like it was a bad thing.  We WANTED to act like adults (paying bills and all)

Now people act like it’s an injustice that they aren’t Vice Presidents on Day One making six figures and doing meaningful work immediately.

You have to do grunt work.
You have to be bad at things.
You have to struggle a little.

Those are necessary conditions for achieving anything.

And Here’s the Irony (I Know)

I fully realize I’m complaining about people complaining.
I see the paradox. I accept it.

But I genuinely think we’d all be better off if we:

• Counted the wins
• Recognized how far we’ve come
• Practiced a little gratitude
• Understood that struggle ≠ oppression

Life doesn’t suck.
In fact, it’s pretty damn good.

Now excuse me while I go turn off a light someone left on and mutter about kids these days.

According to the internet, I’m not environmentally conscious. Apparently, because I was born before reusable silicone sandwich bags and didn’t learn about the planet from TikTok, I “don’t get it.”

Which is wild, because I was raised 1970s green, back when being environmentally conscious wasn’t a brand or an identity – it was just how things were done.

I grew up watching that commercial with the crying Indian – and yes, at the time we just called him an Indian – shedding a single, devastating tear because someone threw trash out of a car window. That image is burned into my brain forever. You didn’t litter after that. You couldn’t. You’d feel like a monster.

I grew up schlepping empty glass soda bottles back to the store so my mom could get her five-cent deposit back. Five cents mattered. And so did the bottle. You didn’t throw it away; you returned it. It got washed. It got reused. The system worked.

I grew up hauling stacks of old newspapers, magazines, and wine bottles to the recycling containers in the train station parking lot. No curbside pickup. No neat blue bins. Just you, your ugly yellow Skylark, and a bunch of rattling glass bottles. And yes, I absolutely peeked into the magazine trailer to see if there was a Playboy. This was recycling with stakes.

My dad never let a light stay on more than a second if you left a room. Not because electricity was expensive – but because you don’t waste it. That was the sin. Leave a door or window open with the air conditioning on? That was a full-scale emergency. Sirens. Lectures. Possibly grounding.

And I know I’m not alone. If you’re Gen X, you were probably raised the same way. Earth Day started in 1970. This stuff was baked into us. Conservation wasn’t political; it was practical. Waste was bad. Full stop.

Fast forward to today.

I still walk around the house turning off lights like it’s my unpaid second job. It kills me that nobody else seems to understand that light switches have an off position. They’re not decorative. They’re not suggestions. They do something.

I drink out of ceramic mugs. I don’t use lids. I don’t use straws. “No, I don’t need a bag,” is on repeat. I reuse things until they fall apart. And yet somehow, I’m the “old guy who doesn’t get it.”

Apparently what I don’t get is the constant doom-and-gloom apocalypse countdown. I already lived through that once. In the 1970s, Hal Lindsey was out there predicting environmental collapse any minute now, scaring the absolute crap out of me as a kid. We were all convinced the planet was ending by 1985.  The only question was whether it would be the coming ice age or global warming caused by greenhouse gases and a hole in the ozone layer.

I’m not a climate-change denier. I’m just aware that the Earth’s climate has always changed – over billions of years. A fifty-year timeline is a sneeze in geological terms. That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t be responsible. It just means I don’t panic every time a graph trends upward.

What I do panic about is walking into an empty room and seeing every light blazing like a Vegas casino.

So yes, maybe I don’t “get it.” Maybe I don’t hashtag it. Maybe I don’t post about it.

But SOMEBODY IN THIS HOUSE PLEASE, TURN OFF THE DAMN LIGHTS.

Because if that crying Indian taught me anything, it’s this: waste is still waste—even if it’s fashionable now