There's probably an MLK out there right now, but millennials would probably not consider his cause, whatever it is, to be central to their rejection of the establishment, just like the hippies in the 60s were more concerned with free love and ending a war than anything else -- concerns, by the way, that they completely failed at making serious progress with. We're still repressed, we still fight pointless wars against people we see as less than human.

Millennials have a raft of things they think are important, and just like previous generations, they'll bring a lot of energy to their advocacy of them, but ultimately, the real changes that we'll look back and see in retrospect as having been the major cultural shifts of our time will probably ride the coattails of that energy, rather than being central.

Each new generation breathes a lot of life, enthusiasm and idealism into the national conversation, and that's good. But millennials are deluding themselves in the same way as every generation before them if they think they actually know something novel.

This is a theme repeated infinitely since time immemorial. Back in my parent's generation, Hunter Thompson put it better than anyone:

Strange memories on this nervous night in Las Vegas. Five years later? Six? It seems like a lifetime, or at least a Main Era—the kind of peak that never comes again. San Francisco in the middle sixties was a very special time and place to be a part of. Maybe it meant something. Maybe not, in the long run . . . but no explanation, no mix of words or music or memories can touch that sense of knowing that you were there and alive in that corner of time and the world. Whatever it meant. . . .

History is hard to know, because of all the hired bullshit, but even without being sure of “history” it seems entirely reasonable to think that every now and then the energy of a whole generation comes to a head in a long fine flash, for reasons that nobody really understands at the time—and which never explain, in retrospect, what actually happened.

My central memory of that time seems to hang on one or five or maybe forty nights—or very early mornings—when I left the Fillmore half-crazy and, instead of going home, aimed the big 650 Lightning across the Bay Bridge at a hundred miles an hour wearing L. L. Bean shorts and a Butte sheepherder's jacket . . . booming through the Treasure Island tunnel at the lights of Oakland and Berkeley and Richmond, not quite sure which turn-off to take when I got to the other end (always stalling at the toll-gate, too twisted to find neutral while I fumbled for change) . . . but being absolutely certain that no matter which way I went I would come to a place where people were just as high and wild as I was: No doubt at all about that. . . .

There was madness in any direction, at any hour. If not across the Bay, then up the Golden Gate or down 101 to Los Altos or La Honda. . . . You could strike sparks anywhere. There was a fantastic universal sense that whatever we were doing was right, that we were winning. . . .

And that, I think, was the handle—that sense of inevitable victory over the forces of Old and Evil. Not in any mean or military sense; we didn’t need that. Our energy would simply prevail. There was no point in fighting—on our side or theirs. We had all the momentum; we were riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave. . . .

So now, less than five years later, you can go up on a steep hill in Las Vegas and look West, and with the right kind of eyes you can almost see the high-water mark—that place where the wave finally broke and rolled back.