During the daily sweep up of endless amounts of dog hair and sand, I was listening to this on the laptop. Mr. M comes in and busts a move to impress his canine fan club.

With broom held aside, "Shit, do you realize that the music of our youth is now probably called 'classic hip-hop' or some such old-ifying label?"
(We saw the Beastie Boys on the Check Your Head Tour in 1992 before we left Philly for the cold Midwest. The husband had hair down to the middle of his back then. And I remember that video turning up on "Beavis and Butthead" where they wondered if they were watching the Weather Channel. Also keep in mind my massive crush on Adam Horovitz).
"Better 'classic' than 'oldies.'"
"Hmmm."
"They were the first hipsters."
"No, there have always been hipsters. The British Romantics of the early 19th century were hipsters."
"They were the first to do that 'ironic dressing' thing in the "Sabotage" video."
"Right, the whole ugly-clothes-are-funny thing."

We didn't mention the cancer.
The thought of folks your own age contracting the ultimate dread is too much to contemplate.