I
My name is Kev Provance, and I’m a Gen-X nothing.
If your initial reaction is, “What? What does that mean? Why are you a nothing? That’s so negative,” then you’re not alone. I heard this a few times when I began pitching this idea.
For those who never read Judy Blume as a kid (and I’m looking at you, Millennials and Gen-Zers), it’s a play on the title of her first book in the Fudge series, Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing, published in 1972. In this book, the protagonist is a nine-year-old boy named Peter Hatcher. The narrative focuses on his relationship with his two-and-a-half-year-old brother, Fudge. Peter is often frustrated with the horrible behavior of his brother, who frequently goes unpunished. Fudge also throws constant temper tantrums, eventually emulating Peter’s behavior and throwing said tantrums if he’s prohibited from doing so. Nevertheless, to Peter’s chagrin, their parents continue to dote on Fudge.
Peter feels like he’s a voice within his family that often goes ignored. He feels like a nothing. Gen-X generally feels ignored, too, societally speaking.
We’ve been called the ignored middle child between the Baby Boomers and Millennials. I’ve never been a middle child, but I watched a shit ton of Brady Bunch growing up, and it seems the middle children of that clan suffered from something similar.
Therefore, the title of this memoir seems apt. Plus, I’m not famous or known outside a handful of people and anyone who’s read my novels. That number probably amounts to a hundred people or so. That makes me a “nothing.” One voice among millions that often goes ignored.
This isn’t a complaint. It’s an observation. In the end, I don’t really care, which is one of many mantras of my generation.
II
During the summer of 2022, I was working on a different novel, and writer’s block hit me like one of those two-ton anvils that many an antagonist Looney Tunes cartoon character understands. It got so bad that I broke down and asked some other writers what they did to help break out of that deep freeze. One suggested, “Write your memoirs even if you never publish them. You’re writing what you know, and that should help melt your freeze.”
Anyone who knows me knows I have an unnatural memory recall which borders near-photographic. I can remember things going back to two or three years old. It also means that as I grew and repetitive thought became commonplace, I inadvertently remembered more about my life than I probably wanted. The happy memories and the terrible ones I wish I could forget. I genuinely believe it has to do with anxiety (and not understanding that for most of the 80s). Why do I say this? People who suffer from chronic anxiety often replay the day’s events repeatedly, usually while trying to fall asleep, and it’s that repetitive thought that commits these memories for all time.
Or, more likely, I’m a freak of nature and cursed.
I took the suggestion, ran with it, and began writing some of my tales. It was then that I realized I’d lived a crazy life thus far.
The next question I typically field at this point is, “If you’re not famous, why write your memoirs? Who will really care?”
No one, probably. Maybe. Or maybe not? I did some pretty crazy shit as a teenager. But who didn’t, right? I’ll grant that. Let me ask you this: Did you ever pretend to be a student at a high school you didn’t attend two years after you graduated and audition for their fall school play? No? Hint: It was for a girl. Most crazy shit we guys do is usually for a girl. The things we do for love. (Bonus points if you got the 10cc reference).
How about this: Did you and your crazy-ass friends torch a condemned house to the ground, reasoning that you were saving the county some money to tear it down? It’s okay, though. The statute of limitations ran out on that years ago. I know. I checked. Besides, we were careful. We thoroughly went through that house to ensure no one else was there. Since there was no social media in the 80s and early 90s, there’s no record of it anywhere.
Oh, and then there was this one time I began a business writing software to combat AOL’s dial-up problem in 1996 when they went unlimited. I ran that bitch until AOL discontinued their software. True story. I was worth a lot of money once. And then I got married. Everything went to shit after that.
I began my first blog at the end of that hell. While it no longer exists, a deep search of the Wayback Machine might turn it up. I still have some of those entries saved on a backup drive. Maybe they’ll make it into this project. I don’t know. We’ll see. They have to be relevant. Kindle Vella limits me to five thousand words per episode. As my writing tends to be verbose, it should be an interesting challenge.
I have stories of this caliber all the livelong day. Once I die, all those memories and tales will be gone forever. So why not put them down on paper for future generations to ponder?
III
I’m also a fierce advocate for all things Generation X. To the point of activism sometimes. So, why not combine the two?
I feel like I’m watching the greatness of my generation slowly fade into obscurity as Gen-Z infects society with their stupidity. Yeah, I said, and I stand by it. Have I become the grumpy old Boomer, telling those punk kids to get off my lawn, Clint Eastwood style? I don’t think so. Not yet, anyway.
It’s my opinion, which is shared by many of my generation, that Millennials began this “my feelings matter, and you should consider your words before speaking to me” movement. Then the Gen-Zers took it so far left that they fell off the fucking planet…and the Earth isn’t even flat! They ought to just call themselves Gen-Wokers. It’s a disease causing the fabric of our society to break down as if someone came along and poured sulphuric acid all over it like Breaking Bad’s Walter White did to that poor kid Jesse Pinkman shot in the desert. It frightens the fuck out of me that these kids will be the ones taking care of me when I’m an old man, assuming they don’t euthanize me for not meeting some age requirement because Social Security will long be dried up. But that would be ageism, wouldn’t it? What a conundrum that’ll be for them.
The world in which I grew up is long gone. What’s left is a fucking mess. I often find myself wishing for the zombie apocalypse. It would wipe out society, and I could spend my autumn years just shooting people in the head, which is basically a lifelong dream come true.
I make rants like this often, sometimes in public, sometimes among friends. One of them, Dan, began playing a game with me. He’d pick some controversial topic and ask me, “Kev, what’s your Gen-X take on wokeness?” The answer would be like the rant offered a paragraph ago.
He suggested I jump on the podcast bandwagon and make a brand out of it. The problem is, there are so many podcasts out there now that it’s like selling a self-published book on Amazon (which I’ve done, so I have a frame of reference here). It plummets to the bottom of the world’s most enormous slush pile that maybe twenty people will find, listen to, and appreciate. Podcasts are expensive to launch, too. I also sink more money than I make into my novels. I didn’t see the need to launch a podcast that would be dead in a month. Besides, I’m a Gen-Xer. We don’t do podcasts. We do blogs.
I took my writer’s block-breaking exercise and turned it into a blog, “Tales of a Gen-X Nothing.” It may have even led you to this Kindle Vella. Or maybe it’s the other way around. If so, be sure to visit genxnothing.com for more. A little shameless self-promotion there for ya.
IV
Let’s get the uncomfortable part out of the way. I’m a conservative now. I used to be middle of the road. Then the left went so far left that the planet tilted in that direction and fell off its fucking axis! In a later chapter, I’ll discuss that transition (God, I hate that word now).
This basically means that if you’re a leftist or a Gen-Zer, you’ll most assuredly be offended by ninety percent of everything I say. That’s fine. I don’t care. I love hate mail. Continued reading means my words may trigger you, but you’ll ultimately choose to trigger yourself, and I absolve my responsibility for it. In other words, fuck you. I don’t care.
Sarcasm is my first language. I’m caustic, politically incorrect, and fiercely opinionated. I have no filter, and I don’t do ‘woke.’ My pronouns are ‘fuck around/find out.’ I don’t care about your truth or your feelings, I don’t care if you’re offended, and I don’t care what anyone thinks about me.
Also, I swear…a lot! I’ve heard it’s a sign of more intelligence, not less. I guess I can live with that.
V
Someday, all the Gen-Xers will be gone, and this work will be a glimpse into a world that’ll be long departed. A world before technology ran amok, before political correctness, and when facts were more important than feelings. Sadly, I feel like that world is now all but gone, and all that’s left is this woke shit that infects every corner of existence. Between vanity abortions on demand and the sterilization of children (transing them, I call it), it’s as if Darwin is playing the long game. Eventually, there won’t be anyone left…or anyone else on the left. After all, people who can’t breed can’t have children. The upside is that the left will wipe themselves out of existence. The only remaining people will be those of religions that encourage marriage between a man and a woman for procreation and who have lots of children. Those people are, by and large, not leftists. It’ll take a generation or two, but eventually, nature will balance all this shit out. Sadly, I don’t believe I’ll be alive to see it.
VI
If in a hundred years, assuming humanity hasn’t nuked itself out of existence and the internet is still up and running, and anyone born after, say, 2050 reads this, I want you to see the world as we Gen-Xers knew it.
We remember the Silent Generation, those born between 1928 and 1946, as the greatest generation. The reasons are many. Hopefully, history books that haven’t been Orwelled into blatant lies are still available, and you can read why they were. I believe that after Gen-X is gone, we’ll be remembered as the last great generation. Because I promise you, as of this writing, the generations that followed mine are most certainly not. Hopefully, humanity cleaned up its act, and your generation restored some normalcy to the world.
I’ll document my generation’s history and the world we knew in some of these tales. Someone has to. I fear that by the next century, the world’s governments will have rewritten history to suit their agenda. Like King James did to the Bible. Like the North did to Civil War history, and like the current U.S. administration in this 2022 writing is attempting to do now. Seriously. They’re trying to change the literal definition of a woman to encompass those with gender dysphoria, a mental illness in which biological men believe they are a woman when they really aren’t.
I think I just heard the heads of purple-haired Gen-Zers, Laptop Liberals, and Marxist Misfits explode (props to Senator Marco Rubio for those colorful adjectives). Before y’all start looking for that “Report to Amazon” button for hate speech, let me set the record straight right the fuck now. I hate everybody equally. This way, I can’t be accused of favoritism. I take people on a case-by-case basis before expressing any fondness, regardless of religion, race, creed, nationality, or sex. I care more about character. And trust me on this one, kids; looking like a chameleon over a rainbow painting doesn’t speak much to your personality. If you want me to like you for you, you must like yourself first, and dressing up like a popsicle implies you may not.
Ugh! Anyways, moving on. We won’t begin this epic in chronological order. That would be downright boring. I prefer flashback writing. Set up the conflict and then provide context and backstory. Anyone who’s read my books knows I used this style frequently. Each tale will build upon the next as we discover if this protagonist has learned anything in his journey. You see, I’m not sure I have in some ways. I often wonder if my best days are long behind me, and the only thing left is me spinning tires until I die. It feels like it most days. Perhaps I’m just working my way through this shit while feeding my starving ego. I wouldn’t be the first. Some blogs I read in the nineties were far, far worse. Only those freaks loved and adored themselves and wanted the world to know how great they thought they were. It was repulsive. But like most train wrecks, looking away was more challenging in practice than on paper.
You won’t get that here. Trust me, I have no love for myself. I just like telling stories.
And on that note…
My name is Kev, and I’m a Gen-X nothing.
These are my tales.
