Saw this one the other day.

“People born in the 50’s have lived in 8 decades, 2 centuries and 2 millenniums. We had the best music, fastest cars, drive-in theaters, soda fountains, and happy days. And we are not even that old yet – we’re just that cool.”

Well now. Time to unpack this for just a bit. First, if like me you were born in the late 40s, then you can update it to 9 decades, 2 centuries and 2 millenniums. Just saying.

Whoever dreamed this up has bookended the amazing time span with some pure braggadocio. I might have quit after the centuries and millenniums bit, but to give credit where credit is due, we lived through an amazing stretch of musical virtuosity. From rock and roll and soul, to jazz and country. Aside: I get why Springsteen’s music rights catalog sold for $500 million, but how the hell can Justin Bieber’s music be worth $200 million. Answer me that!

I’m not really sure that boomers are all that cool. It’s only a quirk of the calendar that we’ve experienced 2 centuries and 2 millenniums. There are some Gen X, Y, and Z peeps who have crossed through 2 centuries and 2 millenniums. Maybe not with as much panache as boomers but who’s doing the ratings.

But back to the best music and fastest cars. Boomers are forever touting how great we are, which might account for all the inter-generational badmouthing we experience. Was our music better or are we just not listening to the current product (Bieber excluded)? Were the cars faster (Tesla shatters that myth and it runs on batteries for crying out loud)? As for drive-in movies, yes, that was fun unless you forgot to detach the speaker when you tried to leave at the end of the movie. Soda fountains? Meh. Brew pub bars are more entertaining.

Lastly, the whole cool thing. Hula hoops were cool. Tie-dye was cool. The summer of love was cool. The peace movement was cool. Bellbottoms were cool (the revival not so much). Woodstock was cool. Do later generations have things and times that were just as cool? Sin duda (without a doubt).

Let’s just say we’ve lived through extraordinary times and while we used to be cool, the cool factor has chilled a bit. I can live with that.

Jay Harrison is a writer and creative consultant for DesignConcept. You can also visit his author page here. His newest mystery novel, Rio Puerco Demise is available on Amazon. His first mystery novel, Head Above Water, is also available on Amazon. But that’s not all. You can also purchase the Best of BoomSpeak on Amazon.

I was in fifth grade in a catholic school taught by Polish nuns in an Italian enclave in Detroit. Ages ago. Before Political Correctness was a thing. My teacher, Sister Anuncia, on what must have been a random impulse decided to ask our thirteen-year old classmate, who had been ‘held-back’ three times, a touchy diversity question. “Mario,” she asked, “do you mind if someone calls you a dago?” Mamo, (that’s what we called him), furled his brow in concentration for a long moment, then allowed, “It’s okay if another dago calls me a dago, sister. But if a dumb pollack calls me a dago, I get mad.”

Sister bit her lip and ducked her head into her wimple, grinning. She would get a good laugh over lunch in the convent.

Some years later, my sister had invited a new boyfriend to our family dinner. My four brothers watched in subdued anticipation as my mother placed the perfectly browned chicken in the middle of the table. My father, carving knife, in hand did the usual courtesy of offering a guest first choice of serving.

The swain, smiling broadly, pointed to the stub of the bird’s tail and announced, “I’ll have the Pope’s nose.” We all looked at each other, amazed. We Catholics had never heard of that smear…nor ever considered that particular appendage edible, for that matter. The silence lengthened. The soon-to-be-dumped boyfriend blushed. Wrong time, wrong place, wrong audience.

Politicians and salesmen know better than to step on sensitive cultural, religious, and ethnic toes—a skill hard earned for some of us. Others come by it naturally. In the end, our diverse society demands that we all dance carefully and nimbly like the green-grocer clerk who complained to his manager about a customer who wanted a half-head of lettuce. “There’s this jerk out there, who wants to buy a half-head of lettuce.” When he notices his manager looking past his shoulder, turns around to see the customer right behind him. “And this fine gentleman wants to buy the other half.”

Later, appreciating the clerk’s quick thinking, the boss suggested he might be management material for an opening in one of their stores in Canada.

“Canada?” the clerk, remarked. “all they got up there are whores and hockey players.”

The manager replied, “My wife is Canadian.”

“Oh. And what team does she play for?”

Retired trainer, and writing instructor, Joe Novara lives in Kalamazoo, Michigan. Writings include novels, short stories, a memoir and various poems, plays, anthologies and articles. Read more at https://freefloatingstories.wordpress.com/

I will always remember the fall of 2017 because I had just retired and read all of Michael Connelly’s Harry Bosch books in order. Such a simple pleasure but hunkering down at home to read after a lifetime of work felt like a precious gift.

That was before the pandemic, before we discovered the dark side of hunkering down. But this staying at home thing … I still sort of like it. To commemorate the miserable rain-soaked winter of 2023, I am burning through all 19 of John Lescroart’s Dismas Hardy books in order. I would describe them as legal suspense with family intrigue, hardboiled criminal investigations and some courtroom drama.

Oh, and the setting is San Francisco.

Early on, I tried to take breaks and read other books in between, but I finally gave up and committed to the blitz. I’ll start number 16 later today and have the rest on hand, courtesy of our local library. I should be done before the rain clears later this week. No one can stop me now.

I’ll be sad when it’s over, the book marathon not the rain, but at least I can diversify my reading material again. However, I do think my compulsive nature rather enjoys the singular focus of one good series at a time. I’ve become immersed in this fictional world, and it’s been a pleasurable escape from the real one. I may just do this again with a new series.

So, today marks 24 years since I was diagnosed with stage 3 primary peritoneal cancer, which is virtually the same as ovarian. I am in a small group of long-term survivors who have been free of disease since their initial treatment. I don’t know why I’ve been so lucky, but I share this information from time to time because somebody somewhere needs to know good outcomes are possible.

Donna Pekar is an aging badass (for real) who lives in California and writes Retirement Confidential.

My son nagged me to join a gym for a long time. Retirement nullified all my excuses for not going (such as inconvenient scheduling) that had proven trustworthy allies over the years.

Two weeks into the blissful state of retirement, the perfect opportunity to try a gym for the first time presented itself in the form of a Groupon offering a discounted one-month membership to the swanky Capital Athletic Club in downtown Sacramento. Hearing about this offer from a 20-something neighbor who was availing herself of the club’s many charms, I mentioned it to my Groupon-fanatic husband, and the next thing you know, I was filling out membership forms.

When you’ve been the oldest person in your office for years – decades older than your bosses – it shouldn’t feel weird to join a gym full of youthful individuals emphasizing their ripped-ness with skin-tight body suits, should it? Well, should it?

Maybe you’re old enough, I tell myself, to rise above the petty concerns of vanity. Forget how you look in your new Target workout pants, tight enough to hopefully contain and compress your accumulated flab and cellulite. No one’s looking at you. Throw yourself into a fitness regime, hoping to control that high blood-pressure and improve your core strength and balance.

I have tried several classes, including “Slow Stretch”, “Mat Pilates”, “Gentle Yoga”, and “Pilates on Ball.” (Yes, I am sore – sometimes super sore — after each of them. Thank you for asking.) I have steered clear of anything implying agony, such as “Abs Blast” or any class with the word “Power” in the title.

I swam a few laps one beautiful day in the outdoor pool and have calmed my post-class aching muscles in the (clothing optional) jacuzzi in the women’s locker room

I have avoided the weight room and the acre of torturous-looking machines. I did have a one-hour consultation with a fitness trainer (part of the Groupon deal) yesterday who concluded – possibly with an eye toward liability issues — that I should stay off the machines (whew!) She said I should satisfy myself, for the moment at least, with bench pressing 5-pound weights in various ways. This is good advice, I think. After so many years as a desk jockey, I don’t want to kill myself in my first month getting fit at the gym.

Susan Wolbarst lives in Gualala, CA