Les soixante-huitards? Soixante-retards more like.  And they're all playing the prodigal son at City Journal. Here's Christoper Hitchens:

Looking back on that year of color and rage and excitement and (yes) hope, I can now see well enough to separate the different kinds of revolutionary with whom I became acquainted. Some of one kind went on to become victorious rulers, either of nascent dictatorships in Vietnam and Angola or of nascent democracies in Spain, Portugal, Greece, and South Africa. Some of a second kind would invert the hieroglyph “68” on the odometer and become the triumphant figures of the anti-Communist revolution of ’89. (For this particular irony, see Tom Stoppard’s brilliant play Rock and Roll.)

The irony, the irony. Why do these idiots expect praise for having seen the error of their ways? Wouldn't it be better not to have been so bloody stupid in the first place? And having been so bloody stupid, why don't they just shut up about it?

68? Do us a favour - add one, get stuck in and keep those motor-mouths occupied.