For me, Y&T wasn’t just another great Bay Area band. They were part of the soundtrack of growing up, the band that opened the door to heavy metal and gave me one of those rock voices I never forgot. From “Forever” to “Mean Streak” and beyond, their mix of melody, muscle, harmonies and screaming guitars still takes me home. I saw them when it was happening, and decades later, I got to hear Dave Meniketti sing again. Some music takes you back. Y&T reminds me I never really left.

A friend recently sent me a long, careful argument for reading Genesis 1 as evidence of a pre-Adamic age, one in which Satan ruled and ruined an earlier earth before God's six-day creation week restored it. He built the case out of real texts: Isaiah 14, Ezekiel 28, Job 38, Luke 10:18, Revelation 12, and a set of striking numerical patterns in the Genesis 5 genealogies. It is a serious argument, made by a serious reader, and it deserves a serious answer rather than a dismissal. I want to walk through that answer here, because the questions underneath it, what the firmament actually is, what "without form and void" actually means, and whether Scripture ever hands us a chronology for Satan's fall, come up again and again in these conversations. Getting them right matters more than winning a particular exchange.

I knew Rainbow. I knew the songs. I knew Ritchie Blackmore. Or at least I thought I did. Then a guitarist in my first little band called him “the technician,” and suddenly I had questions. Those questions sent me backward from Rainbow into Deep Purple, taught me the difference between hearing a guitar and truly listening to the guitarist, and eventually followed me all the way to seeing Blackmore play live. This is the story of the Guitar God I had to learn how to hear.

Some songs entertain us. Others somehow find us exactly when we need them. For Little Angel, Triumph’s “Magic Power” was more than a rock song. It seemed to understand the lonely girl lying in her bedroom with a radio, a head full of stories, and dreams much bigger than the world around her. Then I saw Triumph live and discovered the musicianship behind the magic. Decades later, the posters may be gone and the little radio has disappeared, but the music still takes me back. Triumph never demanded that I remember them. They gave me a reason to.

Before I knew who was in ELO, I knew what their music did to me. It lifted. It bounced. It took me somewhere. From the lonely beauty of “Telephone Line” to the instant Gen X Reflex of “Don’t Bring Me Down,” Electric Light Orchestra created rock ’n’ roll filled with strings, synthesizers, spaceships, melody, and wonder. They were already established when my generation arrived, then came with us into the MTV age without losing what made them unmistakably ELO. I didn’t know their names or their stories. The music was the celebrity. And somehow, ELO always brought us up.

Before we called them legends, we called them Guitar Gods, and we meant it. They walked onto stages with long hair, leather, spandex, screaming amplifiers, and an instrument so badass we called it an axe. We screamed for them, worshipped them, and sometimes wanted to become them. I know I did. Somewhere in the shadows, a Black girl who thought nobody would understand picked up an electric guitar and learned her first rock licks. From Hendrix and Van Halen to Prince and Satriani, this is about the era when the solo was sacred, the arena was church, and we had been baptized.

I grew up knowing the Rolling Stones as a band that was happening now. What I didn’t understand was that they had already been rock ’n’ roll giants for decades. Then classic-rock radio sent me digging backward, and suddenly the band giving my generation “Start Me Up” and “Hang Fire” was also the band behind “Jumpin’ Jack Flash,” “Satisfaction,” and “You Can’t Always Get What You Want.” They survived the British Invasion, MTV, hip-hop, streaming, and generations of musical change without ever needing a comeback. Which leaves one perfectly reasonable question: Are these guys immortal?

The first scratch hits and my body already knows what comes next. “Rockit.” In 1983, Herbie Hancock gave Gen X a record that sounded like the future, sending dancers into school performances, breakdancers onto television, and silver-painted robots onto the streets of Fisherman’s Wharf. But what Young Angel couldn’t know was that the man behind that strange new sound was already a musical giant who had spent decades refusing to stay inside anyone’s box. We thought Herbie Hancock had stepped into our generation. Looking back, I realize something else: we had finally caught up with him.

Millennials, born between 1981 and 1996, have navigated a transformative era shaped by rapid technological advancements, transitioning from dial-up internet to a world that is always connected. They've witnessed the rise of personal computers, the internet, and smartphones, fundamentally changing communication, work, and daily life. However, this evolution has come with challenges such as the Great Recession, student debt, high housing prices, and unstable careers, making traditional milestones harder to achieve. In response, Millennials have redefined adulthood, embracing "adulting," often delaying independence while adopting flexible jobs, gig work, and side hustles. Through these adaptations, they are reshaping definitions of success, stability, and maturity, showcasing resilience and creativity in an ever-changing landscape.

I spent my week trying to navigate a world where being different could feel exhausting. Then Sunday night came, the radio went on, and Dr. Demento opened the door to the lunatic fringe. From Allan Sherman and “Shaving Cream” to the Funny Five and the arrival of a wonderfully weird accordion player named Weird Al, this delightfully insane radio show gave me more than laughs. It taught a weird kid that creativity didn’t have to follow the rules, art was up to the artist, and somewhere out there, other weird kids were listening too.

I knew who Tina Turner was long before 1984. But when “What’s Love Got to Do with It” hit, the woman I thought belonged to my parents’ generation suddenly became one of the biggest stars of mine. I was young, learning to sing and perform, and more than once I found myself wearing the Tina wig. But what I understand now is that I wasn’t simply imitating a performer. I was watching a Black woman over forty reclaim her name, her career, her body, her music, and her life. Tina Turner didn’t just survive. She won. And she was what I wanted to be when I grew up. She still is.

I met Pink Floyd through the ultimate Gen X reflex: “Another Brick in the Wall, Part 2.” What began as the delicious rebellion of kids pushing back against authority opened the door to something much bigger: Money, Have a Cigar, Wish You Were Here, The Wall, and a strange, brilliant musical world filled with questions about conformity, anxiety, time, isolation, mortality, and being human. Pink Floyd gave us the sound before some of us were old enough to understand the meaning. The music didn’t change. We did.

Aerosmith had already lived one rock-and-roll lifetime when an old song collided with Run-D.M.C. and introduced them to a new generation. But “Walk This Way” wasn't simply a comeback. It opened the door to an extraordinary second career filled with new hits, unforgettable MTV videos, massive tours, movies, and a band that somehow became ours, too. From Steven Tyler's unmistakable voice to “Livin' on the Edge,” this is the story of a classic-rock giant that didn't just survive changing times. Aerosmith found a way to become young twice.

Confused by the similarities between the Rastafari flag and the LGBT Pride flag? Discover the history and meanings behind the red, gold, green, and black.

I grew up loving the San Francisco 49ers before there was much to brag about. Then Bill Walsh arrived, Joe Montana took the field, Ronnie Lott became our monster, Jerry Rice joined the magic, and at my very first football game, I watched Dwight Clark make The Catch. Years later, the team would even become part of my love story. Tonight, as a new generation of 49ers takes the field, I’m remembering what it meant to grow up Faithful. I was there. And I’m still here.

The Go-Go’s gave Gen X girls infectious songs, MTV memories, and something we didn’t fully understand at the time: an example of how to survive. We watched five women become rock stars, ride fame to its wildest heights, fall apart, battle their demons, and eventually find their way back to one another. Today their music may not be as constantly heard as some of their ’80s peers, but their influence never disappeared. They didn’t lecture us about resilience or sell us a motivational program. They simply fell, got back up, and let us watch. 🎸❤️

Sixty years ago, Star Trek began a journey I wasn't there to witness. I inherited it later, through reruns and a house full of nerds who had already fallen in love with the Enterprise. Only years later, after becoming a writer myself, did I understand what those 79 episodes had really given me. Beneath the aliens, cardboard rocks, strange new worlds, and occasional space hippies were writers willing to wrestle with racism, gender, power, faith, fascism, artificial intelligence, and what humanity might become. Star Trek didn't just give me a future to imagine. It gave me permission to ask, “What if?” 🖖

Some songs ask you to listen. “Shout” told us to do something. As rock splintered into new wave, punk, synth-pop, and all those strange musical islands Gen X was discovering, Tears for Fears arrived with a message hidden inside an irresistible song: open your eyes, question what you're given, and don't hold it in. From the monster Songs from the Big Chair to the psychedelic reinvention of The Seeds of Love, they kept changing while leaving their fingerprints on a generation. And for one shy Singer Angel, they offered something even more important: permission to use her voice.

Some songs don’t just bring back a memory. They bring back an entire movie. For Gen X, the opening notes of Simple Minds’ “Don’t You (Forget About Me)” are enough to summon five kids, one Saturday detention, and a fist raised over a football field. The Breakfast Club wasn’t a nostalgic look at our generation. We watched it while we were living it, and somewhere in that library, each of us could find ourselves. Forty-one years later, the song still plays, the fist still goes up, and one question remains: Which one were you? ✊🎶

are you currently in college? or recently graduated? this is my literal realization after just 2 weeks.