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Funny music video perfectly parodies aging millennial cringe, wide-brimmed hats and all

Sorry, millennials, you had your time. Here's what you did with it.

via KyleGordonIsGreat/YouTube

Kyle Gordon and friends singing "We Will Never Die."

Every generation has that moment when fashion, music, and attitudes suddenly go out of style and begin to look a bit embarrassing. Baby boomers (1946 to 1964) had to deal with the death of the disco scene and the subsequent years when polyester suits and the Bee Gees were the butt of a joke that neve felt like it would end. (That is, until the Gen X-led disco revival of the mid-’90s.)

Gen Xers (1965 to 1980) had to quietly pack up their flannel shirts and Doc Martens when the grunge era gave way to the nu-metal and the pop resurgence that took over in the late ‘90s. However, everything that was old is new once again, and Gen Z would come to embrace all things grunge. Now, you’ll see as many Nirvana shirts at a high school as you did in 1992.

Sorry, millennials (1981 to 1996), it’s your time in the barrel, and the signature styles and songs you embraced a decade ago are starting to look, as Gen Zers (1997 to 2002) would say, a bit cringey and cheugy. If you haven’t embraced the inevitable yet, this is a warning to please pack up your wide-brimmed hat, take all of the word art off of your walls, and remove “We are Young” by Fun from your Spotify playlist, at least for the next decade or so. Time waits for no one, and sorry, millennials, it’s time to leave your “whoop” in the past.


To put the final nail in the millennial coffin, comedian Kyle Gordon (with the help of Kody Redwing and the Broken Hearst) has taken dead aim at peak cheugy with his song “We Will Never Die” and filmed in Brooklyn in a neighborhood that looks straight out of “Girls.” All that is missing is Lena Dunham. The video takes dead aim at this 2012 Fun anthem “We are Young” and the millenial catchphrases, styles, and attitudes that defined the era.

Warning: You may find the amount of people wearing super skinny jeans with flannel tops or jean jackets disturbing,

- YouTubeyoutu.be

The video is also filled with a list of catchphrases that are beginning to sound a bit passe:

“Yup, we did a thing.”

“Adulting”

“Said no one, ever.”

“Not today, Satan.”

“Ur my spirit animal.”

“Spread kindness like confetti.”

“Free hugs.”


Gordon’s song has all the hallmarks of a 2012 anthem with a big group of people singing “Hoooo-oh-oh-oh-owe-owee-ooh,” in the hook, a mandolin that pops up for no reason, and a plodding rhythm track that sounds like it was lifted straight from Mumford and Sons. Sadly, whoever played that mandolin will probably be out of work for some time, unless he moves to Nashville, because, just like the banjo, the instrument is no longer needed in pop music.

It has to be sad for some millennials to see their glory days have now become the subject of satire. But, if his story has shown us anything, it’s that once generation trends go out of style and are mocked for about 15 years, some high schoolers will find them nostalgic and they will come back in style again. So, after Gen Z is done mocking millennials for being chuegy, a Generation Alpha (2010 to 2024) kid will eventually see a wide-brimmed hat and a piece of artwork with something cheeky written in chevron font at a thrift store and say, “Hey! That looks cool.” Then, they will throw some LMFAO on Spotify and feel pretty cool, just like their mom did in 2011.

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Subway riders in New York are paying $2 for 5 minutes of advice from an 11-year-old.

Ciro Ortiz, a sixth-grader from New York, sometimes has a tough time at school.

All photos by EmotionalAdviceKid/Instagram used with permission.

Like a lot of kids his age, he's dealt with his fair share of bullying. He says getting picked on doesn't really bother him; it's the feeling that he doesn't fit in.

"Some kids are only nice to you if you are into what they're into," he writes in an email. "I'm not going to force myself to be someone I'm not."

He figured there were a lot of people like him that could use some advice or encouragement, so he decided to do something about it.

Ciro was sitting around watching TV one day when he came up with the idea of doling out advice to stressed-out New York subway-goers.

"I think I'm wise enough to give good advice!" he says. His parents agreed.

At Ciro's booth, at the Bedford L train stop in Brooklyn, he offers five minutes of advice for $2.00 — a total bargain.

He's out there for two hours every Sunday, listening to people's problems regarding work, relationships, and with life in general.

The money Ciro makes — about $50 per week on a busy day — all goes to helping kids at his school who can't afford to buy snacks or lunch.

His first day out on the platform, Ciro says he was super nervous. But pretty soon, "clients" started coming to him in bunches.

"I didn't know if people were going to stare or laugh at me," he says. But then they "saw that I was taking it seriously."

And, surprisingly, so were they. People were coming to Ciro with real problems, and truly listening to what he had to say.

So far, the reviews are stellar.

"Somebody came up to us and said that what [Ciro] told her is what she'd been feeling in her gut that whole time," Adam, Ciro's father, told the New York Post.

Out of the mouths of babes...

The thing that seems to be on most people's minds? Love, Ciro says.

People either are't happy with who they're with or they're worried they'll never find the right person.

His absolute best advice: "When you were brought into this world, you were born into someone loving you. Look at it like that."

As for Ciro himself, he says most of his friends at school don't understand what he's doing or why. But that's OK.

Because now, he has dozens and dozens of new friends he's met on the L train platform. He's helped them all by lending a kind ear, and they've helped him finally feel like he belongs somewhere.

"Everyone needs help sometimes," he says. "You can't get through life without help."

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Sick of homophobia at the barbershop, she responded by buying a pair of scissors.

Dez Marshall first cut her hair short in high school.  It was a look she loved for herself, and one she had to fight for when she decided to try out a new barbershop in college.

Photo by Dez Marshall. Images used with permission.

"I was trying to explain to them that I just want something really low, wanted a nice shape-up, and the barber was like, ‘Oh, you want the lesbian haircut?'" Marshall said.

It wasn't the first time she felt uncomfortable in a barber's chair, and it wouldn't be the last.

"Being a woman, being queer, there’s a lot of weird questions that different barbers would ask me that just felt really invasive."

Marshall graduated and moved to New York City, where she found a job as an organizer — mentoring queer youth of color and advocating for their safety and access to public spaces. As she got to know her colleagues, she was struck by how many of them had similar stories: encounters with well-meaning but clueless stylists who were confused when their requests didn't match the stylist's own expectations about how they should want to look. Prurient questions about their dating lives. Dirty looks from other customers.

Marshall decided to take matters into her own hands — and bought herself a pair of clippers.

Marshall began cutting hair in 2013 with the goal of offering her queer, trans, and gender-nonconforming customers a stylish, no-drama trim.

Marshall at barber school in 2013. Photo by Dez Marshall/Instagram.

She currently works at The Gamesman — an established barbershop on Court Street in downtown Brooklyn — where her predominately young, LGBTQ clients mix comfortably with a large contingent of old-timers.

Marshall, initially nervous that friction might develop with the shop's older clientele, attributes her success at integrating to her former boss, Frank Shami, who passed away in August.

"Frank was very old-school, but Frank also lived by this code of: You respect people and people respect you," Marshall said.

Marshall quickly established herself at The Gamesman, with Shami as mentor, talking up her skills and frequently complimenting her clients' cuts. Though she sometimes argues politics with the other customers in the shop, Marshall says her fellow barbers and most of the regulars have embraced her presence there — and more importantly, have made room for her clients to be themselves and chat openly about their lives without judgment.

Marshall and client Milo. Photo by Dez Marshall/Facebook.

"It always makes everything easier when you don’t have to fight or prove to someone that you belong in the space," she said. "Frank just welcomed everybody. That made my job a lot easier."

With Shami's death, Marshall plans to move from The Gamesman to Colleen's House of Beauty, a few blocks away.

"It’s hard for me to remember my pre-Dez haircut time," said Emmett Findley, one of Marshall's long-time clients.

Growing up in Michigan, Findley, who identifies as trans, often struggled to reconcile his gender identity with his outward appearance, which he felt "didn't match up." He found Marshall through a Facebook networking group for LGBTQ New Yorkers after moving to Brooklyn eight years ago, and he credits her for finally giving him the haircut that he "wanted but didn’t even know that I wanted."

"The more masculine a haircut for me, the more masculine I can present, which is what I’m going for," Findley said. "It can help me feel safe in spaces where, historically, I haven’t felt so safe."

Emmett Findley, with post-Marshall hair. Photo by Emmett Findley.

Working with a barber who understands that, he said, helps him feel confident in his presentation and experience. Since finding Marshall, getting his hair cut, which was something he only used to do when necessary, has become a source of enjoyment for the Brooklynite.

“Now I go really regularly. It’s a form of my own personal self-care. I go every two weeks without fail. I put it in my budget."

Though Marshall will "cut anybody that wants to sit in her chair" — she sees a number of straight, cis clients as well — creating a nonjudgmental space for her LGBTQ customers to let their guard down is a critical part of her work.

"It’s really nice to enter a community space where you feel seen and your voice matters," Findley said.

Marshall said she takes special care to ask new clients for their preferred gender pronouns, how they want their hair to look, and about what sort of experiences they've had with past barbers or stylists to ensure she doesn't repeat mistakes. Conversations with customers are often "surface level" at first, but her goal as those relationships develop and deepen for the 20 to 40 minutes they're in her chair is to make her clients feel safe discussing everything from their relationships to struggles with their gender identity to medical treatments.

That sense of openness and intimacy, she said, can be hard for her LGBTQ clients to find — not just in barbershops and salons, but in too many spaces, public and private.

"[As] you start seeing these people on a weekly basis or a monthly basis for a year or more, you become part of each others' lives in different ways," Marshall said. "And no one should have to censor their lives because others might feel uncomfortable."

Making room for those conversations and helping her clients achieve looks that boost their confidence, Marshall said, is why she sees cutting hair as an extension of her advocacy for her community — one that allows her to make a real difference in people's lives.

Marshall with a client. Photo by Dez Marshall/Facebook.

"As an organizer, you can be working for years and never achieve a win on the issues that you’re organizing around. With cutting hair, I achieve a win after every single client."

For her customers, the appeal is even more obvious.

"I get complimented all the time on my hair, and I’m glad to have that on record," Findley said.

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This community is battling crime using jail as a last resort. And it's working.

Pauline Nevins considered getting a tattoo of her mother's phone number so the police would be able to identify her body.

It wasn't a normal thought. At least not the normal she desperately wanted to be. But in the throes of addiction, it made perfect sense.

All images via Upworthy/YouTube.

Nevins was addicted to heroin and crack cocaine and had been for over a decade. She'd spent time in jail but couldn't get clean. In November 2014, Nevins was homeless and living on the roof of a building when she was arrested.

Nevins had hit bottom. But a judge offered her a lifesaving opportunity.

He offered her a chance to go to treatment at a rehab facility. Nevins accepted, mostly to get fed and stay warm, but she quickly realized this was her chance to find the fulfillment and consistency she longed for.

Then and there, she made the commitment to save her life.

The judge who helped her get back on track was the Hon. Alex Calabrese, the presiding judge at Red Hook Community Justice Center.

Founded in 2000, the Red Hook Community Justice Center is a community court for civil, family, and criminal cases from Red Hook, a neighborhood in southwest Brooklyn, New York. Cases are heard by a single judge, Calabrese, who operates his courtroom out of an old, remodeled Catholic school.

Calabrese (center) at work in his courtroom.

Red Hook Community Justice Center is different from most courtrooms because jail and prison are no longer the first, last, or only options.

Instead Calabrese works with professionals to offer mental health treatment, drug rehab, community restoration projects (sweeping, painting over graffiti), and even support groups. There are also social workers on staff to help offenders find and access appropriate resources like GED classes and therapy.


This isn't just a job for Calabrese; it's a chance to improve lives and better the community.

"We give people the opportunity to do the work, but they're the ones that have to do the work," Calabrese told Upworthy. "And then I get to see the power of the human spirit in the courtroom because it's amazing how far people can come back and get themselves to a place where they're addressing their needs."

And the center is more than courthouse. It's a hub for community involvement. Residents can access housing resources, take classes and workshops, get information about community service projects, and attend community events.

The Community Justice Center, along with improved transportation and economic and commercial revitalization, have helped Red Hook, a neighborhood once dubbed "the crack capital of America," turn a real corner.

And many former offenders, including Pauline Nevins, have made the most of their second chance.

She completed treatment and became a drug counselor.

And she's stayed close with the judge who got her on the right track.

"Pauline is an amazing person," Calabrese said. "And I've always told her that she's in the best position to tell other people what they need to do, and to understand how difficult it is, because she's been there."

The unlikely friends even took a selfie together.

It sits at her mother's house. The same mother who used to fear every late-night phone call now talks to her daughter all the time — the same mother who beams with pride when she thinks of how far her daughter has come.

Because programs like this don't just save daughters. They save fathers, grandkids, neighbors, friends, families, and entire communities. They give everyone another shot.

See Nevins and Calabrese's story in this inspiring Upworthy Original:

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