...an apathetic account (on apathy)

I wrote my fair share of articles during my brief stint as editor-in-chief of the Arnold High School Hook. It was a floundering publication to say the least, and by the time it flopped it's way into my arms there was little I (or anyone else) could do to save it. Being editor was a bittersweet chapter in my proverbial history, party because everyone felt the paper was doomed to fail, but also that my tenure as editor did not live up to the greatness of my brother's reign alongside the much wittier class of 2005.

(That being said, those of you that stood by me and made my last semester at Arnold High School a memorable and enjoyable one, I thank you. I couldn't have done it without the seven or eight of you who actually had their junk together. Hell, I'd even thank those who didn't care whatsoever. Your charm overshadows your failure as journalists)

But this is not the point at all.

I distinctly remember writing a particular article, an editorial, about apathy. It was very broad and all over the place, I attempted to emulate some sort of Vonnegut-esque critique of the world and basically rambled how nobody cared about anything. Pretty general stuff, although I'm sure at the time I found myself to be fairly profound. Regardless, the article ran and nobody cared. Is that the definition of irony?

No, because the article really wasn't that good to begin with .Sadly the paper was dead, article or not. Nobody had any reason to care about my little rant. Although it is sort of funny when you think about it.

But once again, this is not the point.

I watched the inauguration yesterday, just like you probably did. I stood in front of a random television in the University of Central Florida student union, surrounded by my peers and the like. Together we nodded and clapped and sneered when appropriate. I saw people of all ages, colors. It was a sort of celebration that can be usually found at the end of your feel-good ABC Original Movie.

But hey, look. It's Obama. I voted for that guy. He's President now. My weekly rituals of debating and Chris Matthews and worrying about Sarah Palin actually feel like they amounted to something. It feels good.

There were still a good number of people pushing through the crowds of students glued to the television. “Excuse me” and “Outta my way” and all that business. I pondered why they couldn't stop for a second and smell the roses. There's a new President. His last name is Obama and he's black. It's kind of a big deal. This is the sort of thing you'll be able to impress your grandkids with while you're wheelchair bound and eating mush.

I watched Obama talk about “change” and hard work. Sacrifices. The sort of stuff that most of us know little to nothing of. I thought about how apathetic our generation is (this is nothing new) and how I'm just as guilty as anyone else as being part of the “lazy” masses. Of course there are those much lazier than myself, but that's not the point.

Here's the big question:

How do you appeal to people who just don't care about anything?

I realize that “anything” is a broad term (in fact, if you picked up a thesaurus you'd probably find them in the same category, so, in a sense, “anything” is the broadest term on the block).

It sounds difficult, but I gave it a decent amount of thought. To appeal to the apathetic you must fight fire with fire. Or in this case, apathy with apathy.

We're a generation (or perhaps a society) that loves the “slacker.” We can find hints of our introverted teenage rebellion in Holden Caulfield. I compel you to find a Myspace page that doesn't have Fight Club under “Favorite Movies” (or books, sure). Beneath the flannel jacket, strapped to the chest and closest to the heart of every chain-smoking, acid-dropping college student that looks like they may very well be homeless is a dog-eared copy of On the Road.

But yes, the slacker. We root for him, cheer for him, we want him to get his way and find happiness without lifting a finger.

This seems to be the new American dream.

I'm not saying that this is a good or bad thing, either. I personally wouldn't mind it, and I can't decide whether or not that should scare the hell out of me. I'd love to to think that if I came upon infinite riches I'd continue to try the whole “writer” thing out. Another, darker side of me thinks that I'd probably wind up eating Turkish delight until I exploded.