A Gen X Manifesto for the Trump Era: How to Be Water in a House on Fire

Lloyd Dobler returns with a Gen X manifesto for the Trump Era—equal parts cultural critique, spiritual punk rock, and meditation on what comes after empire.
This episode dives into the collapse of counterculture, the commodification of rebellion, and how to be water when everything’s on fire.
From John Lennon to Reaganomics, from protest to podcast, this is Lloyd’s love letter to a generation that never asked to be in charge—but might just be the last ones who remember how to say no.

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TRANSCRIPT:
Welcome to The Tao of Lloyd. I'm Lloyd Dobler—yeah, that Lloyd Dobler, the guy with the boombox from Say Anything. Except I'm not a teenager anymore, I'm not chasing Diane Court and I'm not holding a boombox over my head, I'm holding up a middle finger pointed at late-stage fucking everything in the form of this gen-x manifesto.

Today we're talking about my generation.

Generation X. The forgotten middle child of American history—wedged between the Boomers who broke the planet and the Millennials who got student debt, climate collapse, and a side of avocado toast. 

We grew up during the Reagan years, when greed was good and compassion was communist.

But before Reaganomics trickled down and melted our future like a mixtape left on the dashboard of empire, something else almost happened. Something wild. Something beautiful.

Before the Boomers broke the planet, our parents almost stopped the machine and rewrote the ending. Honestly, we were maybe one or two naked drum circle sing-alongs of “Give Peace a Chance” away from actually giving peace a fucking chance. That is to say, our parents were hippies, man.

Not all of them, sure—my parents were in the military, and as I have been saying since that first dinner date with Dianne—that is not an organization I can work for, US foreign policy being the blowback-inducing homicidal bull in a geopolitical China shop that it is. But enough of our friends' parents had beads and bare feet and wide-eyed dreams. There was a moment—however brief—when it seemed like they might actually change the world.

In the 60s we had a US Senator, Robert Kennedy, speaking out against an Apartheid state, emboldened by, and following the lead of a grassroots movement when he said:

“Each time someone acts to improve the lot of others, or strikes out against injustice, he sends forth a tiny ripple of hope, and crossing each other from a million different centers of energy and daring, those ripples build a current which can sweep down the mightiest walls of oppression and resistance.”

And if that grassroots hippie movement was not squelched, and was able to hold on sending forth those ripples of hope, we might have a world where:

the Pentagon’s budget went to schools instead of bombs,
where housing and healthcare were human right—and no one ever reached a point of such despair they became a Luigi Mangione,
where poverty was a policy failure, not a personal one,
where corporations served communities instead of buying politicians and stuffing them in their back pockets,
where gender wasn’t policed, love wasn’t legislated, and trans kids were safe enough to grow old,
where billionaires were mythical creatures,
where art didn’t need funding because it was considered essential, like oxygen or water,
where community gardens outnumbered police stations,
where no one needed to say “Black lives matter” because it was never in question,
where the genocide in Gaza was called by its name—stopped not in spite of our love for Jewish people, but because of our love for Jewish people and all people. Because true solidarity means refusing to let anyone weaponize trauma into apartheid, into rubble, into silence, ever again,
where Exxon executives stood trial for ecocide,
or better yet: where the climate didn’t collapse because the cancer that is capitalism was cut out,
and where love actually was all you needed—because society made sure everyone had enough.

But instead?

Robert F. Kennedy was assassinated.
So was Martin.
So was Malcolm.
So was John Kennedy.
And to usher in the era of Reagan, they even took out John Lennon.

Yeah, “Imagine no possessions?” That lyric alone put him in the cross hairs.

And so the hippies didn’t quit so much as they just got scared.
And really, can you blame them?

They cut their hair, got jobs on Wall Street, bought big-ass gas guzzling SUVs, and learned to call themselves Boomers.
The revolution became a résumé.
And the peace sign got turned into a corporate logo.
And that’s the world we inherited.

Gen X grew up staring at that ghost—at what could've been if our parents hadn't been bludgeoned into conformity. If the forerunners to Project 2025 hadn't crushed the resistance before it got tenure. If the freaks and radicals and lovers had actually won.

Instead, we got reruns. We got Reagan. We got "Just Say No" and trickle-down trauma.

And the truth is—maybe we were supposed to be the second wave.

But the tide never came back in.

So we raised ourselves on pop culture and Nirvana's "oh well, whatever, nevermind" mantra of low expectations. But buried in our cynicism is the grief of a generation that knows:

Another world was possible.

And it almost happened.

Until the motherfascists showed up early.

The Wu Wei of Strategic Resistance

Now they're here again. ICE agents are rounding people up in the streets. The administration is talking about deporting American citizens. And people are asking us why we're not more optimistic.

Because we've been watching the world end since 1983, Karen. This isn't our first apocalypse.

But here's what decades of surviving empire collapse has taught us: you don't beat fascism by meeting force with force. You beat it like water beats rock—by finding the cracks and flowing through them.

Speaking of the lessons we can learn from water. If you were, like me, a Gen X kid watching kung fu flicks on Saturday morning TV, you probably heard Bruce Lee drop this knowledge like a clumsy librarian:

BRUCE LEE VO: Empty your mind be formless. Shapeless, like water.
If you put water into a cup, it becomes the cup.
You put water into a bottle and it becomes the bottle.
You put it in a teapot, it becomes the teapot.
Now, water can flow or it can crash.
Be water, my friend.

The Tao Te Ching doubles it down: "Nothing in the world is softer than water, yet for dissolving the hard and inflexible, nothing can surpass it."

Okay, Lloyd— I can hear you asking, how am I going to fight fascism with a Bruce Lee Pinterest post and a dogeared copy of the Tao Te Ching?

Here is the plan: When ICE comes to your neighborhood, don't meet their violence with violence. Redirect their momentum against them:

• Document everything. Make their brutality visible and expensive.

• Create sanctuary networks that move like water—flowing around obstacles, impossible to contain.

• Use economic pressure. Fascism runs on money. Cut off the flow.

• Build parallel systems. Mutual aid networks. Community defense. Make government irrelevant by making it unnecessary.

This is wu wei resistance: right action that flows with natural patterns.
Wu wei is a central concept in Taoism. It literally means “non-action” or “effortless action”—but it doesn’t mean doing nothing.

Imagine a skilled surfer riding a wave—not fighting the ocean, but using its energy.
Or a tree bending in the wind instead of breaking.
Or people protecting each other from disappearing acts in government vans, not pretending “just doing your job” makes you the good guy.

The Call: Strategic Disengagement, Sacred Refusal

Here's your call to action, Gen X: Stop the Machine. Create a New World.

We can finish the job our parents started.
Stop the Machine. Create a New World was a slogan of a group I was working with in the run up to the Occupy Wall Street movement.
Some of you work in the machine. ICE agents. Border Patrol. Federal bureaucrats. Corporate lawyers who write the contracts. You know who you are. You're listening this on your lunch break, wondering why your niece sent you a link to this podcast, with the text that said: LISTEN! Just LISTEN!

You can walk into work tomorrow and say: "I'm not doing this anymore." One person at a time. One refusal at a time. One moment of sacred resistance at a time.

For the rest of us: Practice strategic disengagement.

• Quit jobs that break your soul. Life's too short to carry water for fascists.

• Quit consuming their propaganda. Turn off the news. They're selling fear, not information.

• Quit performing optimism. It's okay to say this is fucked up and you're scared.

• Quit waiting for permission to help people. Feed the hungry. House the homeless. Protect your neighbors.

The Vision: What Comes After

Here's what we're building while the empire collapses:

Communities that actually take care of each other. Not because government tells us to, but because it's what humans do when we're not being forced into artificial scarcity.

An economy based on mutual aid instead of extraction. Local food networks. Community land trusts. Worker cooperatives. Things that can't be shipped overseas or automated away.

Decision-making that happens in circles, not hierarchies. Horizontal democracy. Consensus building. The stuff our hippie parents almost figured out before they got scared.

A culture that values rest, creativity, and connection over productivity, competition, and accumulation.

This isn't utopia. This is just what happens when you stop letting sociopaths make the rules.

The Gen X Advantage

We have something the other generations don't: we expect nothing from the system and everything from each other.

We’ve been practicing mutual aid since we were latchkey kids sharing Pop-Tarts, Nintendo cheat codes, and the absolute knowledge that those Duck and Cover drills they made us do in elementary school would do absolutely fuck nuts zero to save us.
We're trauma experts with dark humor and low expectations. We can stare into the abyss without flinching, keep going when hope feels like a luxury we can't afford.

We may not be heroes. But we are survivors. And survival, it turns out, is a radical act in a world designed to break you.

We are the generation that can stand in front of the tank—like that kid in Tiananmen Square—and create a moment for the younger generations to walk through and lead. It's what our hippie parents—the dreamers that they were, not the Boomers they became—would have wanted.

We can leverage whatever privilege our age, race, or class gives us to create a pause in this fascist machinery and smash the Overton window of possibility wide open.

Like Bruce Lee says: Water can flow, or it can crash.

Right now, in different places and different situations, we need to do both.

So this is my Gen X manifesto:
Stop the Machine: break it down, compost the cruelty and plant something human in its place.

Be water—patient, persistent, and unstoppable.

And in this way, Create A New World.

From the edge of the empire and the center of self, this is The Tao of Lloyd.