I just returned from San Francisco where I attended the BlogHer conference at the request of a client. Over the weekend I met, or at least was in the same room as, maybe 1000 women bloggers. Yeah--there's a boatload of us/them. The largest contingent by far was the group known as MommyBloggers, a designation I'm pretty much over, if I was ever there at all. No doubt I adore my children to the point of idiocy, but my days of full-time mommyhood are long gone and I'm old and cranky enough to no longer be fascinated by first words, first steps, and which are the best car seats.

My favorite 45 minutes by far was spent in the 'Boomers and Beyond' breakout session, moderated by Virginia DeBolt who looks all the world like a 3rd grade teacher and, now that I've read her blog, I've realized is a kickass technology ace.

The women in this group seemed to range from mid-40's to late 60's and all of them are online writing blogs and pretty much putting to rest the silly notion that we old folks don't 'get' technology. Many of them use Twitter with the ease of a teenybopper.

It was downright relaxing to be among peers. Maybe we have a little of the been -there-done-that attitude, but all of them had ideas as fresh and interesting as tomorrow's technology. The session was way too short. Could've done with less long breaks and more long break-outs.

So, here are a few fellow boomers you might enjoy:

A Boomer's Life After 50
Yes, there is life after 50.

Menopause, the Blog
Pretty substantive stuff--great title.

The Geezer Sisters
Been reading the Geezer Sisters now and again for awhile. It was fun to meet one.

Out On the Stoop
Thought provoking, literate and welcoming

Purse Stories
Lovely site, lovely stories.

There were several more whose cards I didn't get, but they're listed on Virginia's Web Teacher site.

A recent Pew Research Center study finds that Baby Boomers are the most dissatisfied generation. This comes on the heels of a University of Chicago study reporting that it's not a sign of the times, we've always been this way.

A recent article by Monical Hesse on washingtonpost.com takes a pretty tough view of what may end being called Generation W(hine).

Growing up in New Jersey, you were sure to either know some surfin' Beach Boy blonds or be one. Well, it seems the Jersey shore is seeing more surfers than ever and some of them are likely to be the same Jersey boys of summer one knew in high school.

According to an article in the in the NY Times, "in New Jersey, people who follow the sport say, a quarter to a half of the surfers may be middle-age or older."

They may be a little creakier but you'll know them by their long boards and by the fact they may just as easily be in the water in winter as summer. Some have been surfing since they were kids; others have taken up the sport in middle-age.

Something to add to the 'never-too-late' list.

If there's one thing that can remind us how time flies and yet how some things seem to stand still, it's a local community tradition. For us, it's our annual July 4th carnival, a major fundraiser for our volunteer fire squad.Held on a small field that spends most of the year overgrown and open, (and an excellent place to let dogs run), the carnival anticipation starts when we see the volunteers out there mowing. The banner goes up over the bridge, the rides seem to show up magically and suddenly it's carnival time again.

For an event with few rides and a layout you can walk in five minutes, it can generate up to 6000 visitors on a good night--the good nights being 'bracelet night,' when kids can ride all night without using up their college funds, and fireworks night. And for a teeny town, they put on a damn good show. One thing that never ever changes is the food. Believe it or not, aside from the usual fare, our landlocked carnival is known for its steamed clams.

Now here's the thing about time. I've been visiting the carnival for 23 years-- from the time my older son was in a stroller. With only a few exceptions, I've been there every year. I watched my kids graduate from the kiddy rides to the big boy rides, from us winning stuffed animals for them to them winning stuffed animals for me. From very long bracelet nights of ride after ride to keeping a watchful out for roving bands of young thugs---yup...my kids and their friends.

You probably have an elevated level of skepticism when it comes to guarantees. In most cases it's a time limit, mileage or hidden prerequisites that slant the guarantee in favor of the manufacturer. Then, even when you've met all the criteria, try to actually get the retailer to honor it. Good luck.

So when I headed to Sears Sunday with my broken Craftsman ratchet, I was expecting a few hoops to jump through. After all, the rachet was part of a set given as a wedding gift over 30 years ago. But Craftsman has an unconditional guarantee - if it breaks, return it to Sears for a replacement. Yeah, right.

I went to the customer service counter and simply said - "this rachet is broken," and added "what do I need to do to get it replaced," thinking perhaps I needed the original sales receipt or would have to mail it in or some such nonsense.

The woman behind the counter took the rachet (without saying a word) and started rooting around in a couple of bins under the counter. Then she began comparing my rachet to several in her bins. Nothing seemed to match.

Still in doubt, I said, "so it's true?" "

"Yes," was her response as she continued to look for a match.

After comparing several, nothing matched and I began to have this sinking feeling that if there wasn't something in her bins, I was going to have to start hoop jumping. But she just called over the manager and told him there was nothing in her collection that matched my rachet. He took my rachet, walked over to the shelf stock, compared it to one on the pegs and handed over a brand new rachet.

"That's it? No complicated paperwork, no special order, no first-born clause?"

"Yer set," said the manager.

Bravo, Sears!

On a side note, I'd just like to thank my good friend Bob for this wonderful wedding gift from way back in 1978. At the time I thought it was an odd gift, but over the years, it is truely the one thing that has endured. The marriage broke up but I got the Craftsman rachet set (still complete with every piece). And thanks to Sears, it should go on into the next generation.

Many of us Baby Boomer men have been collecting the things that define us for a lifetime. From tools to trains. We started with a little corner of the basement and somehow this collection obsession has evolved into the places we go to be - well, men.

I'm assuming here, but to many women, our spaces look disorganized, random and down right filthy. But pick up any random thing in my man-space and get a story (or an excuse about why I kept a broken thing-a-ma-bob). Frankly, it only looks like a mess to someone else. Need trumps order, nostalgia naturally gets dusty and whether or not I can actually find something is irrelevant.

Someone recently suggested that she could do wonders with my office helping organize, categorize, sanitize and de-randomize. Fine for her, but if I'm relegated to a single room, it's going to be the way I want it - and the way I want it is exactly the way it is. Free-form.

The pile of gravity-defying stuff at the door isn't there because I like stuff so much, it's a physical barrier. It says (very loudly) "you really have want to come in here." Besides, the element of risk adds a certain masculinity to the cave entrance, I think.

Which brings me to a book - written by James B. Twitchell called "Where Men Hide." Last Sunday, we attended the opening of an exhibition by the photographer who Illustrated the book - Ken Ross. Ken is a friend who's been a photographer and teacher (and by the way is retiring this year). While I connected with the words - the photographs had me nodding in appreciation for the various ways we men decorate our grottos.

I actually believe I have genetic disposition for this sort of thing. My father had his own space (at the farthest reaches of the basement) where he hoarded a collection of off-sized pieces of mahogany salvaged from the Chris Craft plant down the road. According to dad, the short cut ends of planks were piled so high in the factory yard it looked like one of those giant salt mounds at the DOT garage.

Dad saw the value in gluing up all those little pieces into bigger pieces - which supposedly were to become something grand one day. But looking back, I think it was the mere fact that he had those treasures - and not necessarily what he was going to do with them.

Then there was Mr. Draper, our next door neighbor. Mr. Draper (I don't know his first name because he will forever be "Mr. Draper" to a five-year-old) had what could only be described as the palace of men's spaces; called simply, "The Doghouse." He had a WWII Jeep that ceremoniously guarded the entrance, and the mother of all workbenches on the back wall.

He would let my brother and I sit in the Jeep, toot the horn, pretend to drive and occasionally turn on the wipers (individually controlled with their own tiny electric motors).

But to behold his workbench was to look upon heaven itself. Each tool (hundreds, I'm sure) had it's own space on the pegboard - represented by a painted outline. The bench had a HUGE vice that could crush a head (yeah, we tried). And lining the ceiling were at least 1000 baby food jars with their lids screwed to the ceiling joist. Each jar filled with a single-sized screw, nut or nail. It was the perfect solution - visible, out of the way and accessible. Brilliant.

I'm sure Mrs. Draper was proud of how organized and efficient Mr. Draper was. But somehow I'm not sure he cared. It was a reflection of himself and a monument to a lifetime of collecting. Bravo, Mr. Draper.

If you'd like to purchase Where Men Hide check it out on Amazon.