Wesleyan kids, younger than me, cooler then me, one of them took acid at a Phish show, got sick of the jams, wanted more dance music. It’s a good song — and in the Spin article featuring these wunderkind with their chocolate-milk and marijunana smoke hotel rooms in Toronto, one senses the ignorance and wonder of the real Gen-Y, talking about the Apocalypse, after which only the young will survive and will dance among the ruins.
Don’t grow up, grow down, don’t grow old, grow young.
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