I volunteered for the High Plains Comedy Festival back in August. At orientation, all the volunteers took a moment to introduce themselves, explain their volunteering roles, and name their favorite comedians. When I admitted that my favorite comic was Louis C.K., it was with a lot of angst-ridden facial expressions, wringing hands, and the preface of, "I know this is bad, but..."

My strenuous ambivalence was due to the revelation that Louis C.K. had, over the years, engaged what is euphemistically called "sexual misconduct," but which was, more accurately, "masturbating in front of women who were intimidated by him."

Fast-forward to the end of last month, when a bootleg recording of a recent Louis C.K. performance surfaced. It contained disparaging comments about "kids today" (my cliché, not his), painting them as overly confident, overly demanding, and overly entitled. Specifically, he derided 1) the survivors of the mass shooting at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, Florida, and 2) kids who don't identify as male or female and have the audacity to say so.

I'm not going to talk here about whether this was cruel or tasteless. I'm not going to opine about whether it was funny or not.

I'm just going to say this: The idea that today's teenagers should behave exactly like Louis CK did in the early 1980s is not only fallacious, it's the very definition of anti-progressive. It's no different from crotchety old racists who want to keep abusing black people because that's what they've always done. Progress means recognizing that old does not equal good, and that we always need to work to recognize our shortcomings and mistakes and commit to do better.  

So, though the rosy tableau Louis C.K. paints of youths of lore "finger-fucking each other and doing Jello shots" is surely charming, I'm going to point out that It's not the immutable ideal. It's not helpful. It's not good enough.

Progress means realizing that when your friends and siblings are getting gunned down in front of you and adults are doing absolutely nothing to stop it, it's time for you to effect change. Despite Louis C.K.'s declaration to teens that, "You’re young. You should be crazy. You should be unhinged," they can't really afford to indulge themselves like you did, Louie.

Look at Mari Copeny. This child isn't even a teenager yet and she's done more for residents of Flint, Michigan (whose water is still poisoned), than politicians five times her age seem to be able to. She's raised tens of thousands of dollars to provide residents with clean water and to give students backpacks filled with school supplies. I wish this little girl could enjoy a more carefree life. But I deeply respect the fact that she decided she can't afford to. She has a true moral compass. A commitment to positive change. She has optimism and a conscience, and she serves as a shining example for how we can—and should—do better.

Louis C.K. could learn a lot from her.

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I'm so sorry, whoever you were.

I suspect it happened during a game of Spin the Bottle at somebody's bar mitzvah. I'm sure it involved insecurity and mortification on my part. I'm certain it was a boy I kissed. But honestly, that's about all I can report.

My childhood memories are... spotty. I can remember the physical layout of my childhood home in great detail, inside and out. I remember the name I gave a cactus that sat on my bathroom windowsill (Horatio), probably because I labeled it with a machine like the one shown here. ​I'll never forget the aroma of the disinfectant powder that got sprinkled on kids' vomit at school. I remember my friend Amy's port wine stain birthmark and my friend Stephanie's phone number. I remember a time I saw a huge white rat in our backyard that turned out to be a possum. There are scenarios and personalities and happenings I can pull up, vaguely. But as for recalling exact sequences of events? No way.

So now, when I read (or listen to) memoirs, as I often do, I am just *astonished* by authors' abilities to recall precisely what they lived through. Currently, I'm listening to Small Fry, by Steve Jobs' daughter, Lisa Brennan-Jobs. She recounts in great detail specific conversations she had, when and where she had them, and what each of the interlocutors was wearing. How? How?

Well, she kept journals, which can certainly help. If you read David Sedaris's Theft by Finding: Diaries 1977–2002, you can see that his meticulous (obsessive?) record-keeping is a big part of his skill as a memoirist and raconteur.

I do have a box of old diaries, so I suppose I might be able to jog my memory and recreate a few series of events. But for now, I'm just going to keep enjoying—and marveling at—other people's stories.

P.S. If you love good memoirs as much as I do, let me know your favorites. Some of mine are The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls, The Sound of Gravel by Ruth Wariner, and The World's Strongest Librarian: A Book Lover's Adventures by Josh Hanagarne (about growing up with Tourette Syndrome in a Mormon family). Oh, and of course Educated by Tara Westover is great. And all these memoirs by comedians. And so many more.