Boomers

Still managing to annoy.

Before we get to today’s topic, here’s a brief:

WORLD CUP EPILOGUE

My wife, Michelle Kaufman, a professional sportswriter, covered the World Cup for the Miami Herald, and as a perk she was given a small piece of the actual sod on which the soccer matches were played in Miami.

We decided to plant this piece of sod in our yard, where it has settled in nicely and is already giving the lawn a distinctive World Cup “feel,” as you will see in this completely candid and unrehearsed video:

Ha ha! Get it?

But enough slapstick humor. It’s time for today’s topic, which is an article I came across in the distinguished British publication The Economist. The headline is:

My immediate assumption when I saw this headline, was: Oh, great, yet another article about how we Baby Boomers are terrible because we’re hoarding all the wealth, and we’re draining the Social Security trust fund, and we refuse to vacate our houses so younger people can live in them, and we think that all popular music has sucked since roughly the Eagles, and we drone on and on about how back in our day we didn’t have mobile phones or GPS, as if that makes us courageous hardy pioneers instead of just old farts, and WHY DON’T WE JUST GO AHEAD AND DIE ALREADY.

That’s what I assumed the article was going to say. But I was wrong. The article says that the problem with us Boomers is... We’re partying too hard. Seriously. The article states that our generation was too wild and crazy back in the day, and we’re STILL too wild and crazy, so that compared to younger generations we’re drinking more and using drugs more, and we’re going to wild retirement-community parties where sometimes we’re even — if you can imagine — having sex.

The Economist does NOT approve of this problematic Boomer behavior. Here’s how the article ends:

The generations now ageing disgracefully were disgraceful in youth, and in middle age. If they’re behaving badly now, there is really not much to be done about it. If they choose to frolic at toga parties, no one will stop them. Except, ultimately, time.

Which is The Economist’s tactful way of saying that the only solution for the Boomer problem is for us to JUST GO AHEAD AND DIE ALREADY.

OK, I don’t want to get too defensive here. I’m a lifelong Boomer, and I will admit that my generation has done some disgraceful things. The leisure suit is only one example. But I take issue with the premise of The Economist article. I know many Boomers, and these days the closest they ever come to frolicking at a toga party is trying to fold fitted bedsheets. The vast majority of us (yes, I am our elected spokesperson) have calmed way, WAY down from the Disco Era. Here, for example, is what a typical evening looks like in my household:

After dinner, I settle on the sofa with Michelle to watch whatever episode we’re on of whatever 53-episode Netflix series we’re currently slogging through. Often, as we watch, we discuss plot developments.

MICHELLE: Are you sleeping?

ME (waking up): No!

MICHELLE: You were sleeping.

ME: No I wasn’t!

MICHELLE: Then what just happened in the show?

ME: A plot development.

I have watched roughly the first 15 minutes of many dozens of hour-long Netflix episodes. This is OK, because the next morning Michelle tells me what happened after I dozed off. Michelle doesn’t need as much sleep as I do: She’s always still up when I go to bed, and in the morning she always gets up before I do. I assume she’s the person who’s been sleeping on the other side of the bed all these years, but I can’t swear to it. Maybe we have a lodger.

But getting back to my wild and crazy nighttime routine: When the Netflix episode ends, Michelle wakes me up and I go to bed. My usual bedtime is around 10 p.m., and when I say “around 10 p.m.” what I mean is “more like 9:15 p.m.” My family mocks me for this, but the laugh is on them, because thanks to my early-retiring habit, I’m able to be wide awake and fully alert at 2:47 a.m., ready to spend two to three hours staring productively at the ceiling and thinking about important issues, the main one being: Do I need to pee?

I’m not alone in this. A few months ago I was texting with my friend and former editor Tom Shroder, who, like me, is an older guy with a Substack, and we had the following exchange about waking up in the middle of the night:

TOM: I can spend an hour debating if there’s enough in my bladder to merit a trip to the bathroom.

ME: It’s not a decision to be made lightly.

TOM: I want to get it right.

My point is, I do not lead a wild and crazy lifestyle, and despite what The Economist says, I’m pretty sure that most members of my generation are just as tame as I am. Yes, I’ve heard the rumors about what goes on in some retirement communities, most notoriously The Villages, which is a huge retirement/leisure complex in central Florida, where according to legend wild sweaty senior sex is happening constantly. Except it isn’t.

I say this because a while back I wrote a book about Florida called Best. State. Ever. and for one of the chapters I spent several days in the Villages, and by using the professional journalism technique of talking to people, I determined that the sex rumors have been blown (Har!) way out of proportion. I mean, I’m sure some people in the Villages are having sex, but the coeducational activity that people there are really into is line dancing. They line-dance every night there, big crowds of people moving in unison to all kinds of music. They are serious about line dancing. I’ve never attended a funeral in the Villages, but I imagine it would look something like this:

Anyway, to conclude this discussion, I would respond to the authors of The Economist article, if they happen to be reading this Substack, by saying, with all due respect: Lighten up, you prissy twits. We Boomers are mostly harmless, and we’ll be out of your way soon enough.

Speaking of death: Lately I’ve been getting a lot of mail from the Neptune Society. This is an organization named after Neptune, the ancient Roman god of the sea, who according to myth lived under the ocean, which apparently resulted in a pretty severe case of shrinkage.

The Neptune Society, as you may know, offers cremation services. Lately it has been offering these services to me a LOT. Here’s the most recent letter:

This is maybe the fifth letter the Neptune Society has sent me in the past few months. Evidently my name is in some database called People Who Could Kick the Bucket Any Day Now. Whatever the reason, the Neptune Society people really, really want to provide my cremation, to the point where they’re making me nervous. I’m afraid to go to the Urgent Care for fear that they’ll be waiting in the parking lot with kindling and a can of gasoline.

Don’t get me wrong: I’m all for being cremated. I just want it to happen after I’m deceased. But I do like the concept of cremation, because instead of just sticking your remains into the ground, your family can do something creative and meaningful with your ashes, such as throw them into the ocean, where a little piece of you will live on for all eternity in the form of silt.

IMPORTANT LEGAL ADVISORY: If you’re a planning to dispose of a loved one in the ocean, be advised that you are required by federal law — I swear I am not making this up — to take the remains at least three nautical miles offshore, and to notify the EPA within 30 days by filling out a Burial at Sea Report (BASR), including, among other information, the latitude and longitude of the burial site. So you should definitely just go to the beach and throw the ashes into the water like everybody else do what the law says.

Another creative option for disposing of a loved one’s ashes is to convert them into ammunition. This is a service provided by an Alabama company called Holy Smoke, which I am also not making up.

Holy Smoke, which was founded by two state game wardens, Thad Holmes and Clem Parnell, will put your loved one’s ashes into shotgun shells, pistol cartridges or rifle cartridges, which your loved ones or friends can then, as a loving tribute to your memory, shoot. The Holy Smoke website explains that this concept evolved from a conversation between two men about cremation, during which one of them said (I am still not making this up):

“You know I’ve thought about this for some time and I want to be cremated. Then I want my ashes put into some turkey load shotgun shells and have someone that knows how to turkey hunt, use those turkey load shotgun shells with my ashes to kill a turkey. That way I will rest in peace knowing that the last thing that one more turkey will see is me, screaming at him at about 1000 feet per second.”

It’s hard to argue with that sentiment. If I were on my deathbed, nothing would bring me more peace of mind than knowing that when I’m gone, some small part of me will be used to terminate a creature with the IQ of a Milk Dud.

OK, I’ve rambled on long enough. It’s time to find out what you brilliant and very much still alive paying subscribers have to say, assuming you managed to make it this far. Today we have three scientific poll questions: