This generation—Millennials, ’80s babies, whatever you want to call us—seems to have an identity problem.
We don’t have heroes.
Ask your dad about his favorite movie. Chances are, things like “Cool Hand Luke,” “Bullit,” “Easy Rider” and “Dirty Harry” show up*. Assuming your dad was born in the early-to-mid’50s (like mine), he was a teenager when these movies came out.
Getting protein never looked so cool.
These were cool dudes driving cool cars, scoping out babes and doing whatever the hell they wanted. For them, life was about the freedom of an open road and .357 kept close to your side.
Even Harrison Ford in “American Graffiti” stirred up a fire with that beautiful ’55 Chevy (which used an M-22 Muncie transmission, btw). Mine and Dave’s dads grew up street drag racing and became pals as a result, so that movie has a special place in my heart. All of these movies do, really.
But here’s the question: Where the hell is our Frank Bullit? Our Cool Hand Luke, our Bob Falfa and Harry Callahan?
Summer Teen Zine 