Technically, I’m a baby boomer. By the usual rule of thumb, the Boom lasted until 1960 or ’64, followed by the leading edge of Gen X a year later.
But, get real — I was 7 during the Summer of Love, okay? When I hit 18 (during that bright, brief renaissance when the drinking age was 18 in America), disco was the thing. Does this sound like a boomer to you? It does not.
Instead of sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll, I got Miller High Life, big bright polyester cuffs and Stayin’ Alive.
Do I feel cheated? Does the Pope shit on the bear?
There’s not a name for us, but you know my kind. Jerry Seinfeld is a little older than me. Mike Nelson is a little younger. Homer Simpson is exactly my age (or, more precisely — I don’t suppose cartoons age — Homer and I graduated from High School the same year).
That’s right — we’re the generation that believes any sentence with the word “pants” in it is automatically funny.
Oh, you’ll miss us when we’re gone (unlike the real boomers — whose passing will be a blessing to Gaia (PBUH) and us all).
Yeah, wait until you have to come up with your own Superman jokes, losers…