As regular readers (you sad, sad individuals) of my columns might infer from the combination of certain specific pop-culture references and general acrimony, I grew up during the1980s. Proudly. My wardrobe had hues and patterns in it that Joseph of Amazing Technicolor fame would have considered a mite garish. I was one of the silent millions who managed to make "The A-Team" a Top 10 show practically every week. I could even explain supply-side economics and maintain a straight face. I graduated from high school at the end of that halcyon decade, went to college and work and grad school and better-paying work and, apart from a couple of one-time events at the Old Alma Mater, have not set foot in the place in over eight years. I returned recently to the Hallowed Halls for an invite-only (oooOOOooo!) charity event and fundraiser, and as one is want to do, took the opportunity to wander the halls and ruminate on the Fine Examples of young men that the old gal's ostensibly churning out nowadays. And as I peeked into old classrooms, clomped up well-worn staircases and breathed in that unmistakable mustiness, still present after all these years, which to us signified Honor, Pride, Temperance, Fortitude, and Stanch Academic Excellence (or a dead mouse in the ductwork...it was 50/50 either way), I observed some marked differences of the Leaders of Tomorrow from us Leaders of Last Month Or Thereabouts. They Have Cushier Seats. The main auditorium, which today functions much as it did in the past (as a sort of hybrid theater/basketball court/assembly hall/place you get chewed out en masse by the Dean of Students), underwent a radical refurbishing. Today's students park their posteriors on plushly upholstered seats, with a rendition of the unofficial school seal intricately filigreed in wrought iron onto the sides of each aisle seat. The effect is not unlike that of the loge seats at the local ConglomoCorp Sportspalast. We, on the other hand, made do with splinter-wracked wooden seats, half of which had their armrests listing as least 40o to starboard and all of which had the comfort quotient of sitting on a sack of caltrops. They Have A Nicer Library. Not that ours was woefully inadequate, but in this day of Ethernets and PDAs and that Interweb thing, the place has been transmogrified into a full-on hard-wired merge lane to the Information Superhighway. In contrast, the back room wherein I took a Typing class senior year – on Royal electrics, mind you – was bricked up. No doubt from a feeling of unqualified shame. They Have A Modern School Paper. "Modern" in the sense of a professional, fully computerized operation in content, layout, and probably ad space once they find a way around Catholic laws against the usury inherent in most ad rate structures. We had a school paper...well, it was on paper, for one thing...and...erm...well, remember those Royal electrics? They Have Better And More Frequent Athletic Success. Which is evinced by the swag of trophies collected by the various sports teams over the last five years or so. These awards crowd the display cases in the foyer; fitting them all in required that the older trophies for things such as Second Place, State Mock Trial Competition (which happened to have a certain cyberessayist's name on it, mind you: an essayist who still feels that we got Olympically jobbed on the judging that year) are nowhere to be seen. Unless, of course, there's a window in the third-floor science labs that needs propping open to vent the almost-weekly ether spillages... They Are More Inspired Than We. Apparently. Or, at least, they're bombarded with inspirational messages more often. To wit, the main hallways proudly display professionally made inspirational banners. Now, while I'm all for inspiration, the look is something out of the Franklin Covey catalog. It would be one thing if students roaming First Floor East got an eyeful of Vince Lombardi-caliber encouragement, but messages employing corporate-weenie verbs like "dream," "believe," "attempt," and so on do not exactly implant confidence that the Fine Young Men of this institution are getting their recommended daily hate-on, academically speaking. The only banners I ever saw hung advertised the semesterly drama guild productions of something by Brecht or Noel Coward, or some other playwright whose literary worth was invariably missed by the few hundred of us pubescent nimrods who passed under them each day. So, to recap: Them: Better posture, technologically superior, journalistically savvy, athletically impressive, inspirationally secure paragons of young manhood. Us: Slouching, undigital, ink-stained, uncoordinated spazzes. ...Damn kids don't know what they're missing.