attn kewl kidz, i hv a msg 4 u

Pardon me, guys. May I interrupt your "O.C." lifestyle for a moment?

Please don't be frightened. I know I'm over 40, a little gray, kinda paunchy, and, thus, probably a little scary to you. But surely you've heard about people like me from someone . . . maybe your parents? Maybe a teacher? Or some kids whispering at the lunch table at school?

Let me allay your fears by explaining what I am: I'm an adult. Sound it out: a-d-u-l-t, a-dult. Yes, it is a funny word. What's even funnier about it is that in some cultures around the globe, I'm actually respected for being an adult. It's thought that my age indicates I've acquired some wisdom through experience along the way. And for the record, in those cultures--despite what little news you've glanced at lately between episodes of Real World/Road Rules Battle of the Sexes II on mtvU--they don't all practice child marriage, require the slaughter of a herd of sheep on feast days, or stone to death wives who want to learn to drive a car.

Even though I'm an adult and practically ready to be roasted on the open funeral pyre of my dearly departed youth, I'd like to be a friend to you--or at least offer you some friendly, helpful observations.

You see, I've been hearing a lot about you. Everyone's talking about you, in fact. Because you're young! And attractive! And have wealthy parents! And, thus, squillions of dollars' worth of disposable income!

There's something else at work here, though. The main reason everyone's got your name on their lips is because you're what's called a "millennial." High concept, hunh? And here you are without your PDA to connect to the web to look it up. As if you had the time or the interest.

It's a little hard for me to explain what a millennial is, but I'll try. If you do a web search and finally get past all the biblical prophesying that the end of the world is near, you'll come across the discussion of the millennial as an age group born in the late '70s through the '90s who don't have the same cultural touchstones as their parents, the baby-boomers. Well, imagine that. Apparently, you can get a Ph.D. from a lot of accredited universities in America by writing up these kind of "duh" statements and publishing them in peer-reviewed journals.

I'm gathering that because you grew up with quick-cut editing on TV and learned to play Grand Theft Auto at the age of nine months, that, according to millennial education theory, this might have had some affect on you and how you process information and the world around you. In other words, you generally seem to have trouble focusing on something longer than the time it takes for American cheese to melt in a microwave.

This millenial meshugas has made you a coveted demographic. I mean, advertisers are practically touching themselves in public over the hotness of potential revenue you could put out for them. And, golly, now look who else is exposing themselves over your marketability? Futurists! Pop psychologists! Think-tankers! Technologists! Educators! Magazine writers! It's the whole freakin' cabal of company-loves-misery types.

This cabal of the culturally hysterical tells us if we don't blog, or text, or K.I.S.S. it (keep it simple, stupid), or download all of human knowledge on an iPod--no wait, a Nano! no wait, make that a video iPod!--we've totally lost you forever. You'll go and get all your education and information from, I dunno, a crack house or Google or something.

For example, at work I keep being told that I need to keep it short and sweet, that anything that involves narrative--sorry, let me rephrase--too long of a text message (better?), or anything that can't be dealt with in under five minutes (or was that five seconds?), you'll just ignore. Thanks to your toys and outgrowing your ADD medication, you're simply incapable of paying attention. After all, while I'm trying to talk to you, I notice you're multitasking--researching a paper, text messaging your dudes and dudettes, listening to 960+ tunes on your Pod, and flirting with someone on the other side of the room. Who can keep up with something as lame as a conversation with an old guy when you've got so much else going on?

It's OK, though. 'Cause you've got the Power! You needn't change a thing about yourself. Everyone's willing to adapt to meet your needs and abilities. We'll give up any standards whatsoever that we might once have had to make you happy and comfortable. Let's reduce the size of the English vocabulary because you need quick, tiny words. Let's not approach anything with any depth or detail because you can't find the mindfulness to give it a nanosecond of your time. Let's not finish our thoughts because you can't listen to them anyway--you've already moved on.

Besides, all that extra, like, thought stuff gets in the way of what's really important--your lifestyle. Your toys and material pleasures. Your future career in management, computers, helping people, celebrity, or marriage. Your time spent thinking about what other people are thinking about you.

However, I'm just a wee bit concerned about this trend. I fear that your inability to concentrate any longer than it takes for a housefly to take a dump is impacting you in unforeseen and potentially tragic ways.

It's causing your good fashion sense to slip.

Let's take you first, Kirsten. Yeah, girlfriend, when I saw you on campus the other day, you did look pretty hot in those Ugg boots and the denim mini and slouchy turtleneck and bed-head hair, and, like, anything more would sooo seagull all over your style. But it was 25 degrees Fahrenheit that morning with a stiff wind coming down from the hills, and you're weren't even wearing hose, let alone a hat, gloves, coat, earmuffs, or anything remotely protective.

Frankly, my dear, I know I'm sounding like your grandmother when I say this--you remember her, the old lady your parents exiled to Fort Myers when she hit 65 because she was cramping their lifestyle and bumming them out?--but did you forget to put on any underwear, too? Or were you consciously going for that Pamela Anderson-meets-Tommy Lee-on-a-boat-for-a-web-cam-gynecology-exam look? Trust me on this, Kirsten, the next gust of wind, it's going to take you well past "I see London, I see France . . . ."

And you, Jayson--dude, flip-flops in the snow? With baggy shorts and a t-shirt? What up? I mean, I'm not even convinced that that Flying Tomato Guy from the Olympics would do that in Lake Tahoe on a dare.

You do have a hat, I'll grant you that, that stoner snow-boarding wooly cap you like to wear throughout the year. We both know it's just for style, or maybe it's just become affixed to your head, and you're too embarrassed to ask anyone to help you remove it. But to be honest, I'm not sure the rest of your studied, rebel-without-a-clue look is going to let you survive until after spring break. Yeah, I know it's warmer on the playas in Punta Cana, but we're living in the frigid peaks and valleys of Pennsylvania.

Besides, the plates on your Mini Cooper--the one you nearly ran me down with while you were wearing your Ray-Bans, chatting on your cellphone with your frat "bras," and being the kind of A+-student slacker-rebel you truly are--say you're from Connecticut, so you oughta be familiar with cold. True enough, I'm sure chicks don't think coats and sweaters are cool, but I hear they think cleaning up pneumonia-related sputum you coughed up on their Ugg boots as even less cool.

Again, sorry to interrupt your lifestyle. I just had to share. I know, at 18, you know everything already, but still, I just felt it was important to say someth--

Oh, wait, where'd you go?

Oh bother. You're texting again.

Lost another one to high tech.