My articles are sometimes less than relevant to some seniors due my forgetting how broad that classification is. A 60-year-old at my FOG table asked what my recent reference “Come on-a my house” meant. I shouted the line to the next table and a shout of “My house a come on” came back. My friend’s confusion grew. The explanation concerns the 20 year age gap between the two groups of “seniors.” One group was baffled and the other well-aware of Rosemary Clooney’s (George’s aunt) hit song of the ‘50s. An enormous success, despite its craziness. Check YouTube.
Although the label “senior groups” implies their interests and backgrounds to be similar, they may be quite different. The main culprit for the confusion and non-understanding is the age spread permitted in the definition. It starts with the first invitation to join AARP and reaches the inspection of retirement facilities. Practically speaking one might divide the knowledge and experiences by three decades roughly based around the 55, 65 and 75 year olds.
My topics and references often cater to the third group and falsely assume the second to be close enough to understand. Worse, the first group is out in the cold. The decades passed so quickly I never noticed the differences. I fear some of my most brilliant jokes, puns and double entendres have gone unappreciated.
To the really young who find a dial telephone threatening, enjoy my comments though you may miss a few things. If nothing else, you get a hint as to what’s coming; so get out and enjoy it while you can and I’ll try to keep away from “Well of Loneliness,” Tom of Finland and hootenanny references.
Going down
A recent gathering of mostly lesbians at a friend’s house led to some memorable moments. The main event was watching a football game which, had I known about, might have occasioned an RSVP regret. Actually, I enjoyed it, although I missed a lot of the jokes, some, I suspect, aimed at my scant knowledge of football. The Bears were playing the Packers and the room was divided into two groups of frenzied partisanship. Naturally, the only thing I cared about was which team had the hunkiest players to feed my locker room fantasy. The action confused my Japanese partner and I did my best to explain.
My efforts seemed to amuse both factions which participated in offering the expected remarks and puns about fairy football and such. I countered back about athletic supporters and who would be licking whom. The greatest hilarity ensued from my simple question dealing with going down. The announcer constantly screamed about it and my partner, somewhat familiar with the term, was puzzled. Downing, I informed him, was throwing the ball a certain distance, but suddenly I couldn’t remember if the down throw had to be 10 feet or 10 yards, so I asked the woman beside us. Her expression and stunned silence clearly told me she didn’t know either. Regaining her composure, she interrupted the proceedings and loudly posed the question.
A debate erupted between the feeters and yarders. Their comments about going down on feet or in yards and puzzling references about inches brought roars of laughter from all but us. Finally, a vote decided it was feet. It was fun and I was thrilled when they insisted I return for a soccer game.
