EXCERPT: Howl Too, Eh? I see the best dressed minds of my g-g-generation,    trendy, coked to the nose, hooked on Trivial    Pursuit, driving their free spirited BMWs through ghetto    streets looking for the ideal cockroached flats to    fix and flip, Young Upwardly Mobile Urban Professionals    yearning for the neo-nouvelle connection to the    bottom lines of 2nd Début encounters with the    Third Wave of café-au-lait-coloured mid-life    Passages. The Fifties Who Spocked, Seussed and Pablumed, boomed    after the Second Boom Boom into the land of    suburban split-level nurseries, who were nursed on germ-free Lysol nipples and    toilet trained by Captain Kangaroo, who were Howdy Doodyed by Clarabell and Princess    Summerfall Winterspring on plastic-covered    couches while in the dens Father Knew Best    with Donna Reed who always came home with Lassie, Lassie II,     Timmy, Timmy II, and their puppies, who hopped along Happy Trails with Roy, Dale,    Bullet and an unstuffed Trigger, who were Kemo Sabeed by the Masked Man, who fought savage redskins with long knives,    thunder-sticks, forked tongues, and Rusty    Rin Tin Tins, who sent in box tops for parents like Ozzie and Harriet, who were snapped, crackled, and popped for    breakfast, Wonder Breaded for lunch, and    TV dinnered for supper, who wanted Spring Byington and Walter Brennan for    grandparents but had to settle for old-country    Bubbes and Zaides, who saw Dick and Jane see Mom and Dad see Spot    poop on Sally, who left it to Beaver, who passed air raid drills under desks with friendly    phys-ed teachers who preached the godlessness    of Dirty Commie Ruskies and the importance of    white socks and cold showers, who, wearing towels and sisters' panties, leaped    from chrome and arborite tabletops into    Clearasiled puberty, who, after watching Annette Funicello in Mouse ears,    jerked off into their Mickey Mouse pajamas, who sneaked into girls' washrooms to be aroused    but were mystified by the Kotex vending    machines instead, who bought Romance Comics for their philosophy,    morality, and Frederick's of Hollywood ads, who wearing high heels for the first time, tripped    descending Loretta Young's staircase, who wanted Kookie's comb, Anka's shoulder, and    Elvis' hips, who, with soldered beehive hairdos, in itchy pink    mohairs over bras stuffed with Kleenex and    crinolined skirts over invincible girdles,    went to the sock-hop with crewcuts,    Brylcreemed to their "little dab'll do yas,"    faces burnt by that something in the Aqua Velva,    and Lavoris-scrubbed breaths for the after    at the lookout, who danced chinos to taffeta to the crotch-music of    Elvis clones, who, at the lookout after the hop, went so far    but not past their reputations and wouldn't    French or touch it because it was icky, who begged for it and promised respect after and    forever, who, one Sunday night, watched "A REALLY BIG    SHOE" starring Topo Gigio and John, Paul,    George, and Ringo, let down their hair and were    never the same.    Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!