The high school kids reading the Wall Street Journal on the 8:16 today.
You were both about 18. One of you was a bit rakish–tall, lean, a mop of curly hair that one could envision a recently divorced MILF running her fingers through. The other was a bit more generic: parted hair, the vaguely preppy (chinos, oxford shirt) uniform of a private school kid or an intern.
You each had your own copy of the Wall Street Journal. You discussed stock prices across the aisle, AOL’s takeover of Bebo, even the pro’s and con’s of rainy-day slip-on shoe covers (we called them “rubbers” back before we knew better).
Guys, you’re 18! You should be reading Mad Magazine, or maybe even Maxim. I’m all for 18 year olds who are engaged, maybe even feel compelled to register for the vote, and perhaps even muster the energy to break from the Xbox and get to their local polling place come November.
But geez, you shouldn’t be reading the Journal and discussing stocks and takeovers and shoe prophylactics on the train. Be 18! Slouch in some pizza joint chair, your mouths full as you make fun of people walking in! Talk about girls! Talk about baseball and ultimate fighting and My Chemical Romance! You have the rest of your life to read the Journal.
OK, class dismissed.