MY TITO?S birthday party was like a tug-of-war between two generations, with each generation desperately trying to ?outpull? the other. It was also a celebration dinner for tito?s daughter who recently passed the bar exams. My cousin said her celebration was just a ?singit? in this party, and I had to agree since the average age of the attendees could not have been lower than 50 years old.

So there were the twenty-somethings seated at the right side, and most of the feeling-twenty-somethings seated at the left. Of course, it was quite easy to predict which side would clap harder after each Tionco Brothers? performance. (For those who don?t know, the Tionco Brothers were apparently the Jonas Brothers of their time?a time which those fortunate enough to have experienced it do not dare to mention.) It was also easy to see which side would sing (chant, shout or mumble, whatever we call it nowadays) when the DJ finally played a pop song from the 21st century after long spells of cha-cha and boogie medleys. Needless to say, the audience was sharply split age-wise, but everyone was there for a celebration.

I was alone in our table, though not in the literal sense. By ?alone? I mean I was the only young person there. Yes, being the only young person among senior citizens can be quite depressing, especially if you are sandwiched between your parents. But to make the most of the situation, I decided to people-watch.

While the twenty-somethings laughed at my dad?s deliberately outrageous dancing, the host of the party who was himself a senior citizen mocked all the twenty-something men for not having the guts to dance with their dates.

?Change the song kasi!? the twenty-somethings chorused. And soon they were dancing wildly to the songs of Usher, Justin Bieber and Ke$ha and showing their seniors how real dancing was done.

The eternally wise senior citizens, however, were quite critical of their dancing. ?Puro turo at talon lang naman pala alam niyo, eh (All you know is to point and jump),? they pointed. The two groups were having a showdown, trying to show which generation had the less absurd dance moves.

Of course, I have to defend my own generation and declare the young ones the winner by a mile: our dance moves are more expressive and less patterned. However, I would also have to be honest and acknowledge that in the manner of wooing the ladies and scoring pogi points with them, the senior men were clearly the winner.

The women nonetheless were as pakipot as they ever could get. So for the men, it was either you got it or you didn?t, regardless of age. I am not kidding when I say the clash of generations can actually be turned into a reality show.

Being alone on that table wasn?t so depressing. In fact, it was my safe haven when my dad and I were dancing to ?O.M.G? by Usher, but I still did not get the point. When your dad tries to dance ballroom to a pop song, you are not likely to get the point. You see, being part of the tug of war between generations isn?t as much fun as being just a spectator. When you?re only an observer, you can make fun of both, even if you don?t really belong to either group, and watch as they eventually declare a truce.

This clash isn?t a never-ending one. A truce will inevitably be declared. This tug of war is played in such a way that while both parties try to pull as hard as they can, neither will stumble because there is always a balance.

We will always tell our parents and others of their generation that their dance moves from the ?60s are ridiculous. We will always tell them they are dancing the wrong way. We will never stop saying their diskarte is outdated. In our eyes and in our judgment, their clothes will always be baduy, their jokes will always be corny and their crazy liking for vegetables will never be acceptable.

On the other hand, they will always think that our boyfriends? skills cannot even begin to compare with theirs. They will tell us our music is only glorified noise. They will never stop reminding us how we are having such a much easier time than they had when they were our age.

But still they live with all that. They have stuck with us even when our hair was too spiky, our taste in men was so unacceptable, our heels too high, our pants too tight (while refusing to admit that their pants were tighter in 1960s). The bottom line is, they are letting us live our glory days, just like they lived theirs, and we are grateful no matter how hard we try to conceal it. And so the clash ends, and we might even consider learning ballroom dancing and filling our iPods with The Platters, The Bee Gees and The Beatles, provided they don?t try to mimic our dance moves or start wearing our clothes.

Long live the ?90s. Long live the ?60s (and the decades before it). Until the next clash? Maybe over karaoke this time?

(Salve Regina L. Capulong, 16, is a BS Humanities student at the University of Asia and the Pacific.)