Young people don’t know some of the greats like Richard Widmark, Yvonne de Carlo, Carmen Miranda or even 6’4″ hairy-chested “Cheyenne” Clint Walker (my heart be still). It’s great when we seniors get together and know who we are talking about; and besides, by the time I have explained who the people are, I’ve forgotten what I was going to say. As previous articles have pointed out, with the right topic and an occasional explanation opinions spanning various ages can be enlightening and fun.
I’ve taken my own advice recently and engaged in several conversations with a young friend, in his early 30s. Movies have been a frequent topic and I recommended a variety of oldies. He dutifully rented them and later offered his opinion. He enjoyed them all with a few provisos: not much happened in Shane, although clever; they talked a lot in Maltese Falcon and it was in black and white; Seven Brides had too much music and the best was Alien. On reflection I dismissed further thoughts of introducing Ingmar Bergman. No, not lngrid. Ingmar! (Ask a senior – is there no end to it!)
Where was I? To keep things on an equal footing, I listened to some of his favorites on YouTube. I can only say Elvis, Pat, Neil, Kingston Trio, Teresa, Connie, Loretta you are sorely missed. I endured brain numbing repetitious music thankfully loud enough to cover the screamed, unintelligible lyrics. The DVDs involved zombies, monsters or both and gorgeous, often incredibly stupid, young people all killing or being killed. Blood poured off the screen practically into my lap. Realizing the desired reaction, I dutifully reported being so terrified I couldn’t sleep which pleased him immensely.
Our friendship continues, although I no longer throw in an occasional butch, “dude.” It just makes him snicker. I am now trying to learn “give me five,” and those complicated hand bumps and shakes. His friends find my efforts hysterical while making unkind remarks verging on the racist. I’m sure it is a generational thing. I’m not giving up.
Something should be done
Seniors are constantly advised to keep their minds and body parts active with the admonition for both: use it or lose it. Due to the excessive cost of some of the more esoteric local lectures and discussions, I admit to sinking to the level of TV viewer, of course keeping to the political programs and documentaries. The rumors of my devotion to Honey Boo Boo are unfounded and malicious. I watch merely to acquaint myself with the plight of gays in the rural South as exemplified by Uncle “Poodle.” To relax from the high level stimulation, I have turned to the old-fashioned talent contest genre – so gussied up Arthur Godfrey wouldn’t recognize it. This background finally brings me to my topic and the object of my wrath: the other night The Voice, Dancing with the Stars, and American Idol were all on at the same time! How were we supposed to phone in our limited number of votes? It all got so confusing flicking back and forth with my cell phone in one hand and my land phone in the other; sometimes I don’t know who I voted for. The speed dial made it worse as I sometimes pushed the wrong buttons and got Hunk’s Massage Service (for my back pain), a pizza parlor and my favorite Chinese take-away.
The massage shop was especially upset when I kept shouting I wanted Derek and he kept telling me, “He’s off tonight.”
It was extremely frustrating; I all but despaired to the point of kicking the TV. Clearly darling Derek should have won. Yeah, yeah, the young woman who won did very well; so she had no legs. So what? That’s irrelevant. The point is too many shows with too many choices confused too many voters. Something should be done about this!
