uExpress.com: As I See It by Cynthia Tucker -- (07/29/1999) BABY BOOMER AND GENERATION Y'ER FIND SOME WAYS TO CONNECT

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BABY BOOMER AND GENERATION Y'ER FIND SOME WAYS TO CONNECT

07/29/1999

My summer study of Generation Y is nearing an end -- and not a moment too soon. I'm not sure I could take much more confirmation of how out of touch I have become.

My 21-year-old cousin has been my houseguest for the summer, and as is often the case with these cultural exchanges, things haven't worked out quite the way I expected. I had assumed that I would spend the summer

teaching him things. Given my status as a cousin, rather than his mom or dad, I thought I could sneak in a little positive influence every now and then -- force-feed him educational TV, change his music interests, get him beyond the sports pages of the newspaper.

While some of those hopes were realized, for the most part he has been the teacher and I the student. He has taught me trendy words and phrases, introduced me to TV shows I'd never seen, given me heartburn and reduced me to riotous laughter -- sometimes unintentionally.

His Atlanta sojourn has come at an awkward time in his life. Having lost an academic college scholarship because of mediocre grades, he was forced to move back home with his parents in Montgomery, Ala., where he attended a local college. But after a short time of enduring that indignity, he began to feel a little, uh, crowded. And his parents a little, uh, vexed. So he began lobbying me: Could he spend the summer with me if he found a job in Atlanta?

Sure, I said. How bad could it be? I laid down the house rules, assuring him that I have a one-strike-and-you're-out policy. He has been faithful to the rules (mostly), since he didn't want to be sent back to his parents. A well-reared young man, he takes out the trash, mows the lawn and washes my car.

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Had I understood what I was getting in for, though, I would have added a few more rules. Among them: Don't insult me with your youth-distorted perceptions of age. He once described a colleague as an "old guy, at least 40." Ouch. After meeting a friend of mine, he referred to him as "one of the old guys" he'd seen playing basketball at a local gym. O-w-w-w!

Still, we have tolerated each other well. I've found myself absorbed in his favorite TV shows, both fascinated and repelled by his favorite rap groups and amused by his dating rituals. I've seen more music video cable channels than I knew existed, watched sports channels I'd never heard of, and argued over the merits of Lattrell Sprewell, one of the bad boys of professional basketball. ("Genius," says he. "Thug," say I.)

He has introduced me to the HBO dramas "The Sopranos" and "Oz," known for their violence but also for thoughtful writing and acting. For that I thank him. He has also exposed me to a host of the characters who populate professional wrestling, known for fake violence and stupidity. For that, I can't forgive him.

He has laughed at my expressions of genuine outrage at the casual vulgarity that flavors so many TV sitcoms, even those aired during prime time. We have laughed, together, at Chris Rock.

He has not been altogether successful at changing the boring habits of a baby boomer with an 11 p.m. bedtime and a fondness for Motown, but he's done his best. I thank him for that, too.