The end of my generation, part 1: Wannabe Rappers

In my neverending pursuit to understand my idiotic generation, I came to a realization. Luckily for myself, I chose to shun society until I turned about 19, and now, two years later, I wish I had continued to listen to my first instinct. In the pointless time I've spent in University, I've done far more to notice styles and catch up on my generation's lack of it.

Now, most decades, or generations of people in Western society are categorized by some term, which follows a close relationship with their clothes. From the free-love anti-bomb of the 60's, the Disco "tightpants" of the 70s, to Yuppies and Generation X, and the brief flirtation in the mid-late 90's with "Generation Y", to yes, even the wife-beating "let's pretend we're a family with values" of the 50s overshadowed by the Cold War, each have distinctive qualities that define them and make them easily recognizable.

This got me thinking: What will my generation's youth be defined as? Using the power of the internet and my bus rides throughout the city every day, I managed to narrow it down to the dominant styles - each are distinct enough from the common flow of jeans-and-tshirt people, and both are frequent subjects of ridicule from anyone with any kind of common sense. These people are the lowest common denominator of my generation, and thus are how older generations assume we all are.

But like our burned-out hippy parents that gave into the man after realizing that they were suddenly the ones with power and money, I forsee that these styles have dismal ends. So I have handily outlined what these are for future reference and "I told you so" creditials. Today: Part 1 of this (at least two-part) series, The Wannabe Rap style.

The wannabe Rap style: You're white but you wish you were black, or failing that, a hip hop star. Eminem has given you all the inspiration you need to prove that growing up in Suburbia is just the same as growing up sleeping on the streets, and even though you've never touched a gun before and you don't know where the safety is on it, you'd definitely be able to bust a cap in anyone over even the smallest of arguments. You spend all your money on bling and designer clothes, wear basketball jerseys of players you've never heard of but their name sounds black, and of course you're nothing without your pin-striped cap put on to cover your right ear - but failing a cap, you've got some sweatbands. Accessorizing is a must here; you're not the baddest motherfucker in your middle-class hood unless you've got at least $250 of jewelery. If any single piece of clothing is less than 100 dollars, you're worse than ghetto, which you don't know what that word means but it's gotta be good cause everyone says it.

You have a slavic devotion to hip hop and rap. 50 cent is your god. You totally understand what it's like to be him, growing up on the streets, dealing rock, which you assume is coke but aren't sure, and getting in drivebys. That is simply your entire life to this point.

Your dream is to sleep with as many girls as possible, and with your 'hood, you frequently refer to how they are 'bitches' and that you're gonna get some play any day. She'll go down on you unquestionably, with her DD breasts and 100-pound body. After you've slept with her, or got a blowjob (which you'll later tell your friends was sex), you brush her off to venture to the next girl, but of course, if she dares to move on, she's a slut. You are incapable of loving a girl - although you have no problem with lying to their face about it to get action. You call the shots in a relationship, or at least think you do, and don't understand when she's mad. You assume it's because she's a bitch.

You dabble with weed to start, which quickly becomes your favourite (and only) pasttime with your friends. After getting high a bunch of times off other people's weed, you realize you need money to support this habit. Getting a job is out of the question, cause you're a gangsta and working is for losers and bitches, so a small Break and Enter is in order. You're successful at first, but each attempt gets you closer and closer to getting caught, and you get cocky. You finally get caught, and your friends have hung you out to dry, fleeing the scene before you could. You try to escape but trip over your baggy clothing - but you're lucky, and get a slap on the wrist punishment, which you assume is you "putting the man in place". You're now terrified of getting sent to prison, but that's not enough to deter you from petty theft.

You venture into more hard drugs, enjoying the high more and more - but it's more and more expensive, too, so you start selling whatever you can - except what you wear. That's part of your skin now. You've become a junkie, but you luck out while baked and find a girl. She's willing to put up with your bullshit cause she's partially retarded, but you don't care cause you can't stop staring at her chest. She has the potential to pull you out of your spiral, but you ignore that... after all, you're a gangsta.

Years have passed by now - you've got no job still, no prospects, no education, but you sure look pimp to 15 people, and everyone else is a hater. You need money, so you get a temp job while learning how to deal drugs. Your addiction to drugs eventually gets you fired, but it doesn't matter anymore cause you've become adept at selling drugs.

You have squabbles with other hoods over something retarded like land neither of you own or something either of you said. If it's not directly related to you, you get pulled into the fray 'backing up' your hood. It's a success! You get revenge by stabbing or beating someone from their hood - if you're lucky, they die. Otherwise, they get back to their base. Things are great for you and your crib - and there couldn't possibly be any reprecussions for this.

Of course there is, and a overblown gang war is started. You get your hands on a gun, and although you're clueless to how to properly use it, you've watched enough movies and music videos to assume you do.

From here, one of two things happen.

1: You get into a firefight with the other gang, and are successful. You held the gun sideways and didn't get shot, and got away with minimal collateral damage. One of your crew is hurt, but your personal "surgeons" get the bullet out and then start drinking away the night. You wake up in a puddle of your own vomit and with a killer headache, and after stumbling out into the day, life is great for a few weeks.

But then the cops catch up to you. You know they're close to catching you, and because you're on coke you're extremely paranoid about getting caught. Unfortunately for you, you have a mild OD and wake up in the hospital. There's a court case, which you lose horribly but end up in rehab first by a stroke of luck.

Six months later, you're declared healed, and head out into the world again, ready to instantly forget what you've just been court-ordered. But wow, you're getting older, now in your late 20s. You find out your crew is a shade of it's former self, some in jail, others rehab, and a retaliation took place while you were in rehab, so some are dead too. You get high and drunk to honour them, and are caught a few days later committing some random crime, but again, are let off with community service. You ignore it, break parole on something minor like getting drunk or breaking curfew. You end up in jail - your worst fear.

You're a pretty boy, and those few months are terrible. You've done things that have scarred you for life, and your asshole sure is sore, but now you've got ex-con streetcred. You've got no place to live, and your crew is strangely rejecting you, or at least, what's left of it. Your girl is long gone, moved on to someone you kind of know, but you pass it off as she's a bitch.

You've got nothing going for you, but you still think you're badass. You get way over your head trying to get back to the top, and you're gunned down by a rival, or arrested in a raid. If you're not dead, you're now in jail for the rest of your life.

2: You get in the firefight, and you suffer heavy losses - apparently they were expecting you, or they had better guns. You tried everything, even holding your gun sideways, but it didn't work. Half your crew is injured badly (including yourself), or dead, or the smart ones didn't go and left the crew (the bitches). You're in hospital for awhile, and the recovery is long, but you haven't forgotten what's happened. You're in your late 20's, but the ragged remains of your crew band together for the last stand. It's the night before your attack, and you're getting high/drunk to prepare. You've got a bigger gun from a guy that knew a guy, but the word spread too quickly - the rival knows you were coming, and they attack first. If you're not gunned down right there, you again suffer bad injuries and are back in the hospital. You've lost a lot of normal functions, and it hurts to move sometimes.

You're just short of 30 when are released a second time. You find a new girl, clueless to where the first went, and try and clean up - you get a temp job, which turns into your permanent job, you have a few kids (if you haven't had a few already that you dunno where they are but still have to pay child support). You wonder how your life could have ended up this way, so dead-end. At least you stayed out of jail - but just barely. You still get high from time to time, but nothing hard anymore - your girl has threatened you about that, and you listen because you're scared of living on the street like you claimed you were from back when you were 19. You're a burnout, but you sure looked badass in your early 20s. You regret everything but refuse to admit it to yourself.

Your girl leaves you before you turn 40. Dejected and useless to society, you turn to drugs again. You either get arrested or OD. If you're not dead, you're in jail, and just want to see your kids again. But their mother won't let them see you - and who could blame her? You'd cry, but you're too manly for that. You've wasted your life.

But you looked cool when you were 19.

Part 2 "Emo", next.

-Mark