Rebellion postponement: the

I POOR?

WHY A M

It's Prince Tyler of Portland on the phone, my baby brother by some
five years; our family's autumn crocus; the buzz-cut love child; spoiled
little monster who hands a microwaved dish of macaroni back to Mom
and commands, "There's a patch in the middle that's still cold. Re­
heat it." (Me, my two other brothers, or my three sisters would be
thwocked on the head for such insolence, but such baronial dictums
from Tyler merely reinforce his princely powers.) 'Hi, Andy. Bag­
ging some rays?" "Hi, Tyler. Actually I am."
'Too cool, too cool. Listen: Bill-cubed, the
World Trade Center, Lori, Joanna, and me are
coming down to stay in your spare bungalow on
January 8 for five days. That's Elvis's birthday.
We're going to have a KingFest. Any problem
with that?" 'Not that I can think of, but you'll be
packed like hamsters in there. Hope you don't mind. Let me check."
(Bill-cubed, actually Bill³, is three of Tyler's friends, all named Bill;
the World Trade Center is the Morrissey twins, each standing six feet
six inches.) I rummage through my bungalow, hunting for my reser­
vations book (the landlord places me in charge of rentals). I muse all
the while about Tyler and his clique—Global Teens, as he labels them,
though most are in their twenties. It seems amusing and confusing—
unnatural—to me the way Global Teens, or Tyler's friends, at least, live
their lives so together with each other: shopping, traveling, squabbling,

tendency in one's youth to avoid traditionally youthful activities and artistic experiences in order to obtain serious career experience. Sometimes results in the mourning for lost youth at about age thirty, followed by silly haircuts and expensive joke-inducing wardrobes.

thinking, and breathing, just like the Baxter family. (Tyler, not sur­prisingly, has ended up becoming fast friends, via me, with Claire's brother Allan.)

How cliquish are these Global Teens? It really boggles. Not one of them can go to Waikiki for a simple one-week holiday, for example, without several enormous gift-laden send-off parties in one of three classic sophomoric themes: Tacky Tourist, Favorite Dead Celebrity, or Toga. And once they arrive there, nostalgic phone calls soon start: sentimental and complicated volleys of elaborately structured trans-Pacific conference calls flowing every other day, as though the jolly vacationer had just hurtled toward Jupiter on a three-year mission rather than six days of overpriced Mai Tais on Kuhio Street.

"The Tyler Set" can be really sucky, too—no drugs, no irony, and only moderate booze, popcorn, cocoa, and videos on Friday nights. And elaborate wardrobes— such wardrobes! Stunning and costly, coordinated with subtle sophistication, composed of only the finest labels. Slick. And they can afford them because, like most Global Teen princes and prin­cesses, they all live at home, unable to afford what few ludicrously over­priced apartments exist in the city. So their money all goes on their backs. Tyler is like that old character from TV, Danny Partridge, who didn't want to work as a grocery store box boy but instead wanted to start out owning the whole store. Tyler's friends have nebulous, unsalable but fun talents—like being able to make really great coffee or owning a really good head of hair (oh, to see Tyler's shampoo, gel, and mousse collection!).

They're nice kids. None of their folks can complain. They're perky. They embrace and believe the pseudo-globalism and ersatz racial har­mony of ad campaigns engineered by the makers of soft drinks and computer-inventoried sweaters. Many want to work for IBM when their lives end at the age of twenty-five ("Excuse me, but can you tell me more about your pension plan?"). But in some dark and undefinable way, these kids are also Dow, Union Carbide, General Dynamics, and the military. And I suspect that unlike Tobias, were their AirBus to crash on a frosty Andean plateau, they would have little, if any, compunction about eating dead fellow passengers. Only a theory.

Anyhow, a peek out my window while looking for the reservation book reveals that the poolside is now devoid of people. The door knocks and Elvissa quickly pops her head inside, "Just wanted to say bye, Andy." "Elvissa—my brother's on hold long distance. Can you wait a sec?" "No. This is best." She kisses me on the ridge at the top of my nose, between my eyes. A damp kiss that reminds me that girls like Elvissa, spontaneous, a tetch trashy but undoubtedly alive, are somehow never going to be intimate with constipated deadpan fellows like me. "Ciao, bambino," she says, "It's Splittsville for this little Neapolitan waif."

"You coming back soon?" I yell, but she's gone, off around the rose bushes and into, I see, Tobias's car. Well, well, well.

Back on the phone: "Hi, Tyler. The eighth is fine." "Good. We'll discuss the details at Christmas. You are coming up, aren't you?"

"Unfortunately, oui. "

"I think it's going to be mondo weirdo this year, Andy. You'd better have an escape hatch ready. Book five different flight dates for leaving. Oh, and by the way, what do you want for Christmas?"

"Nothing, Tyler. I'm getting rid of all the things in my life." "I worry about you, Andy. You have no ambition." I can hear him spooning yogurt. Tyler wants to work for a huge corporation. The bigger the better.

"There's nothing strange about not wanting anything, Tyler." "So be it, then. Just make sure that / get all the loot you give away. And make sure it's Polo."

"Actually I was thinking of giving you a minimalist gift this year, Tyler."

"Huh?"

"Something like a nice rock or a cactus skeleton." He pauses on the other end. "Are you on drugs?" "No, Tyler. I thought an object of simple beauty might be appro-priate. You're old enough now."

"You're laffaminit, Andy. A real screamfest. A rep tie and socks will do perfectly."

My doorbell rings, then Dag walks in. Why does no one ever wait

CONSPICUOUS MINIMALISM: A life-style tactic similar to Status Substitution. The nonownership of material goods flaunted as a token of moral and intellectual superiority.

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