BARGES COLLIDING AT THE SOCK HOP

According to an outfit advertising their services on what is probably the worst damned news site ever (SF Gate), us unattached fifty-plussers are "silver singles". No, I didn't click their hole. I don't need to know more.
Whatever happened to the time-hallowed term "randy old goat"?

Silver Singles, forsooth!

Creaky teenagers.


It was the culmination of several slowly frustrating minutes waiting for the sponsored content on their site to sort itself out. This randy old goat was more interested in the concrete falling from the upper deck on the Richmond San Rafael Bridge and the closing of the AMC Van Ness 14 cinemas than any number of statuesque and thoughtful-looking women wearing hip and stylish yet dignified clothing from a mail-order company back east that specializes in mature fashions for the trim and healthy older white woman of a certain income level.

Just give me the damned news and stop trying to cater or kiss-up to whatever you perceive my demographic to be, dammit.



What demographic speaks both Dutch and Cantonese, smokes a pipe, trims his facial hair regularly, and collects language dictionaries? Is there a collective of that subset, which, by the way, includes all colours and genders and ranges in age from fifteen old years to one hundred? And what, pray tell, would you market to us?

We aren't into Tibetan beads, Mayan clothing, or all-hemp lifestyles.



I have better relationships with my stuffed animals given berserk voice by my Aspy apartment mate than I do with professional and cultured people of the opposite gender wearing tastefully restrained knits style-accented by meaningful jewelry or scarves.

Trust me on this. Snidely the Head Sheep finally realizes that his dastardly plan to kidnap Clarissa the imaginary girl hamster, who visits Ms. Bruin and Caterina the lumpy purple feline every day while us adults are at work, is frowned upon by the other small apartment mates. And that he should by no means trim her lovely whiskers (which he says are too long and unseemly).
They're her whiskers! And her equally imaginary mom will get him with her flick knife if he comes close.

Grandpa Hamster occasionally whacks at him with his walking stick.

These are matters I thoroughly appreciate.



Birkenstocks, Native Jewelry, and Tattoos give me gas.
So do chakras, auras, and past lives.




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