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a short tale of mice and unmentionables

In all technicality, my "youth" is right now, if one judges youth by the age of which one is usually considered to still be in their "youthful years"... so reminiscing about the pop culture of my youth wouldn't really be very... reminiscent, seeing as it's happening... right now.

That being said, how would i paint (or photoshop, as time may have it) a verbal picture of these sweet digital days to future generations? If a robot-child, many yonks into the future, were to ask me what was "hip" in the 00's, what would i tell them? would i try to relay to their innocent metal ears the glories of the blogosphere? muse about my nation's frenzy over the selection of our so-called Canadian Idol? furrow my learned brow, bare my gnarled teeth, and utter a barbaric "YEAAAARRRRGH!"?

alas, no. in comparison to the true events, my words will be lifeless, but an oyster's shell crackling beneath the trash compactor of time. i could only tell of pixels and HTML, of statistics and record sales, of New Hampshire! and Massachusets! and South Dakota! my withered voice could never evoke such glorious exchange, such mortifying degradation, and least of all... the sad frenzy of a spark fizzling: a man grasping at straws, trying to reinforce a broken bridge to presidency.

stories lose their potency as they are diluted by the runoff of decades. they warp and twist, they cease to describe what they were designed to describe. they cease to evoke any feeling at all. The story of my youth could just as easily be told by a futurist author, many years before i was even born. As a writer, I fear this... and as a child i feared this more than the dark, more than monsters under my bed, more even than disney movies. What happens if what i say is eventually blurred beyond recognition by exaggerations and spin? The world of the future may quite possibly attribute to my name a story that has ceased to be mine, a tale i never even truly told.

perhaps this is how it is meant to be. perhaps history was meant to be rewritten. in the year 9004, perhaps the name Dean will evoke images of a rare breed of mouse, the name Britney a fattening snack, the name Bush a brand of underwear. This is the story i tell of my youth: don't let those goshdarned Deans into the house, they chew through the sugar sacks and startle the dogs.

(This has been another Nippy-ism. More of her nonsense can be read at her headquarters.)