NEWTON'S LAW: THE GENERATION GAP REVISITED: `OH, BUT WHEN I WAS A BOY ...'

You've heard about the generation gap, fabled in story and song. Here's what it is: people casting a critical eye on those who came before and those who come after. No one is satisfied and nothing could be more cleansing.

It is a sweet toxin and natural as breathing.

Don't fool yourself into thinking empathy excludes you from these venomous thoughts. It's mere identification you're noticing, recognition of your past played out in another's body. That doesn't count.

All kids discover the unruly correlation between carbonated beverages and showy belches. All kids find it hilarious until an older soul, having voided this variety of humor for the manners of age, informs them sternly of the action's crude character.

That is what the generation gap isn't. That isn't the kind of act that prompts one to raise an eyebrow, sigh profoundly and pronounce genially restrained indignation in the form of, "When I was young, we ...."

Generation gap became a popular phrase in the 1960s, when millions of young people believed they were the first to reject the notions of their elders. These same folks probably have grandkids now who prod them, heads shaking, to toy store registers for the purchase of New Kids on the Block dolls.

You spend most of your life in some form of generation gap, either looking forward or back; at times, the gaps overlap and you, with both children and parents to relate to, become a conduit for misunderstanding that spans three generations.

It is both elitism and sentimentality that prompts us to this behavior. We believe we have something to share from our past and want the generation that follows to benefit from it ... even if they're whining and kicking about it.

This drill was renewed at my home during the wave of nostalgia that seemed to wash over the Columbia Broadcasting System's programming savants last week.

Here's a hint on parenting: trying to bring the family together on the weight of one person's fond memories will only leave a heart broken.

Here's another hint: don't ever try to explain to your children about Ed Sullivan.

It can't be done, my game attempt at it notwithstanding. I was encouraging to my kids the viewing of an Ed Sullivan special and having little luck.

No, I explained, he didn't sing, didn't dance, wasn't particularly articulate, wasn't remotely handsome or entertaining. But this will be great, I told them; it was real big when I was a kid.

My first-born was the first to jump ship ... busy with homework, even though he didn't have school the next day. My four-year old, born a dozen years after Sullivan's death, jabbered oblivious to my urgings, noticing nothing in my description that rang a bell of recognition, like "mutant ninja" or "Macauley Culkin."

My eight-year old hung tough, giving me an "I'm-Pulling-For-You-Dad-But-I'm-Missing-The-Concept" look. He was willing to give up some time for Bill Dana, Chinese acrobats, The Doors and the maudlin recollections of his old man. Sweet child.

We should allow each generation its mysteries and hold adamant a pledge never to inflict them on children or parents. I can hold close John Lennon and leave the kids M.C. Hammer, if indeed he'll be remembered two decades hence.

I doubt he will be. Stars don't burn as brightly today. But when I was a boy ....