Millennials reach age to qualify for reunion

PUBLIC EAVESDROPPING “We’re the highclass homeless.”

Sandie Wernick was at the Marina Safeway the other day, where outside, near the chain of shopping carts, she noticed about 15 dressed-up people who seemed to be arriving for some kind of planned gathering. Watching from her car, she could hear one older woman commenting to another, “Are Millennials old enough to have reunions?”

Wernick sent this description when I was pondering a related issue. The past few years, the era of the 50th anniversary of the Summer of Love, and then the 1968 Chicago convention, and so forth, many former hippies and hell-raisers have stepped forth to remember the times when their hair was black and their hormones were pumping. Many rememberers, probably old enough to have retired from jobs, have found the time to write memoirs. Those of us who lived through the era are fascinated; our children (and grandchildren), less so.

But what of today’s Millennials?

In 50 years, will their grandchildren be rolling their eyes as they tell tales about their adventures on the cutting edge of tech? I’m picturing Rossmoor and other retirement communities filled with tattooed octogenarians in T-shirts and hoodies, playing pingpong and reminiscing about the days when DNA analysis wasn’t mandatory, Amazon hadn’t taken over the business of higher education, and it was still possible to buy naturally made honey. Remember letter carriers? Remember when cars had manually operated steering wheels? Yes, their heirs will be rolling their eyes.

Norma Watkins sent a photo of the sign taped to the wall over a scale at her daughter’s University of Tennessee gym: “This scale will only tell you the numerical value of your gravitational pull. It will NOT tell you how beautiful you are, how much your friends and family love you, or how amazing you are.” In other campus news, Berkeley Bob overheard one young male student at UC Berkeley say to another, “I tried to set it up for when I move into the new place, but I am coming up two days’ underwear short.” Over breakfast, John Shiels and his granddaughter were speculating about an appropriate tribute to legislators on U.S. Congressman’s Day (far as I can see, a purely fictional occasion). “U.S. Congressman’s Day,” she said, “is when they step out of the Capitol building and see their shadow, then we have four more years of bull.”

In business, use everything you’ve got. An emailed flyer from Winston Baker, a company that produces film finance conferences, begins, “What do Megan and David Ellison have in common? Besides being the kids of Oracle founder

Larry Ellison and legit producers making their mark on Hollywood, Megan and David’s executive teams are speaking at Winston Baker’s upcoming events this fall.” In this three-tiered cake, Larry Ellison’s name is being used to tout the “executive teams” of his children? Sharper than a serpent’s tooth, I guess, but perhaps Pops volunteered to be bitten. The Chronicle’s Carl Nolte tells me I missed a grand party on Aug. 25 at the Craneway Pavilion in Richmond, where “celebrity accountant” Jack Lapidos celebrated his 75th birthday with 700 friends. This was a costume party, and the honoree/host changed three times: He was Moses, a Roman emperor and then a medieval king. The party included a chariot race with two chariots and four horses, and a gladiator fight (in which no one was injured).

Getting ready for Hardly Strictly Bluegrass (first weekend in October), the organizers of which have sent word that because the festival has become an official part of the Hellman Foundation, its old Family & Friends section will henceforth be known as the Pickers & Pluckers section. (I don’t quite get the “because,” but the new name is said to honor “those who are talented musicians, and those who love music and the spirit of the festival,” and no one could argue with that.)

The previous paragraph is an example of what’s called “burying the lede,” putting the less important part of the story first. The real tragedy is that Pickers and Pluckers won’t get reserved parking this year, or lunch. We here at The Chronicle — oh, about 900 of us who were happy to have qualified as “friends” — are going to have to starve or bring a sandwich. I’m sure not going to bite the hand that sometimes has fed me, but I’m blaming it on Trump.