‘ ‘ ‘ Between responding to e-mail offers for ‘Natural Male Enhancers’ and trying to find true… ‘ ‘ ‘ Between responding to e-mail offers for ‘Natural Male Enhancers’ and trying to find true love on MySpace, I spend quite a bit of time online. Still, it was only by random chance that I stumbled upon an article on Reuters, followed by a bazillion others that boldly branded you and me as the Facebook Generation. ‘ ‘ ‘ Now, that’s kind of disturbing. Consider the generations before us. First, we have the Greatest Generation, known for its ability to pull a country out of depression, defeat fascism and reproduce in unprecedented numbers. ‘ ‘ ‘ Next up is my parent’s generation, the Baby Boomers Generation, most famous for overseeing the largest economic expansion in U.S. history, the invention of the Internet. And finally, we have us, the Facebook Generation, known best for our prodigious ability to log onto a site started in a dorm room and electronically poke one another. ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ Obviously, we need to crank it up a notch. Of course, many of you are probably thinking, ‘But Ravi, I don’t want to fight in a World War or break Social Security! What else can I do?’ That’s a perfectly reasonable sentiment: We don’t actually need to do anything great, we just need to make it look that way. We need to command respect and look important. You know, for the history books. ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ This brings me to the second part of my story: ‘ ‘ ‘ In a tragic accident involving the sweep of my hand, a cold cement floor and gravity, my cell phone now exists in multiple fragments. As to not be late to the midnight screening of ‘Twilight’ ‘mdash; kidding (or not) ‘mdash; I had to burden my delicate wrist with an ugly analog watch. It was hideous and I left my room, dreading an onslaught of ridicule. ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ What happened next was amazing. ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ The adults who had previously written me off as a punk ‘mdash; or hated me for my good looks and aura of success, I can never tell ‘mdash; suddenly started smiling at me. The police officer laughed at my joke. The guy next to me on the bus gave me stock advice. And I’m pretty sure more middle-aged women than usual were suggestively winking at me. ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ It was the wristwatch. Unlike the rest of my peers, whose pocket-dwelling, radiation-emitting cell phones doubled as their timepieces, I was wearing the signature accessory of the Greatest Generation. They respected me for adhering to tradition. The Baby Boomers, upon glancing at my vintage metal clasps and leather strap, were quickly overwhelmed with fondness for or fear of their parents. Either way, they respected me. ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ Whenever someone asked me for the time, I didn’t risk looking like a deviant by sticking my hands deep into my pockets and fishing around. I casually glanced at my wrist and authoritatively reported the time, just like General Patton had done on the battlefield or John F. Kennedy had done in the Oval Office. I had automatic gravitas. I was a somebody. ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ That’s important because, let’s face it, I don’t do much around here. However, with a wristwatch and purposeful walk, nobody in Towers Lobby questioned why I was just walking in circles all day collecting free stuff from the student tables. Maybe I was a sophisticated Web entrepreneur conducting market research. Or a suave European prince here to find a lucky girl and sweep her away into a fairy tale. ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ Unfortunately, not everybody was impressed. Some people accused me of being a poser, a fake.’ Others wanted my greatness and, lacking a watch, tried to steal mine. In both cases, I carefully angled my wristwatch and reflected searing sunlight into their eyes while I made my triumphant getaway. It was as good as an invisibility cloak, except it only worked near windows. ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ Now, am I suggesting that wearing wristwatches will make our generation great? No. That’s actually a really stupid idea. However, for a generation that is quickly running out of time to do something of historical consequence, it’ll buy us a little time. ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ Folks, we’ve suffered through ‘Pokemon’ and endless remakes of the ‘Power Rangers.’ We allowed the ‘Fresh Prince of Bel-Air’ to be cancelled, and we even did the Macarena. And need I say more about Giga-Pets? ‘ ‘ ‘ We have got to recover from these failures. ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ So here’s my contribution to that greatness. While you dedicate your energies to passing finals, just shoot me a quick e-mail with your revolutionary thoughts and your brilliant money-making schemes. ‘ I’ll go ahead and patent them for you. Why work so hard? Let Ravi make history for you. E-mail him at [email protected]