I just arrived home from a weekend in Washington DC to celebrate the birthday of an old friend. And no, that’s not a bad camera shot, although I am quite capable of them; it’s that I can’t show you the whole picture because he’s retired from a post with the State Department where he was involved in covert operations from time to time.
“Old friend”applies every way you look at it. Old FRIEND because I’ve known him since first grade, and OLD friend because he’s older than me, by two months, a fellow card-carrying member of the first year of baby-boomers to grace this earth. As if this wasn’t enough to remind me that time has marched on, the next day I found myself officially declaring to the world that yes, indeed I am an official old person.
I was traveling back to New York on Amtrak and arrived at Washington’s Union Station with over an hour to spare. And as my dad would say I “had to run my mouth.” so I called a friend. And after 15 minutes or so of running my mouth I saw that I’d been oblivious to that fact that a line was forming at the boarding gate. and by t he time I got myself over there it was a long line snaking clear out of the waiting area. So I trudged to the back,kicking myself for not being more mindful of what was transpiring.
Fifteen minutes before departure, the boarding process began with the announcement
“Priority boarding for seniors, the disabled and business class travelers. ”
l looked at my ticket. Yes, there it was SENIOR!!! Can you believe I almost let vanity keep me there at the back of the line? I can’t believe it! But yes, I was thinking I can’t go up there with all those old people
Well the thought was distinguished by a voice in my head that sounded awfully like Mr T –
“FOOL!” It said.
so I gathered up my bags and made my way through the crowd. I admit I had to use my NY aggressiveness those blocking the way who didn’t know the meaning of “excuse me.” Well, actually I prefer to think they thought I was a gate crasher because I couldn’t possibly be 62 or older
Still mired in this vein of delusional thought, I was delighted when the boarding agent stopped me and scolded “There’s a line here.”
“I’m a senior,” I proclaimed,
Yes, there’s the line And sure enough there was a line of white and grey hairs waiting to have their senior tickets checked.
I got on line, and was soon admitted – no questions asked, sigh, no proof of age requested
We still had to wait another 15 minutes but al least we were in. and I began to feel a camaraderie with all these fellow seniors.
I must mention how different the boarding procedure is at Unions Station, from New York’s Penn Station, where I had begun my journey. At Penn, there is are no airport-like individual gates nor do they even announce the track until 15 minutes before boarding so one has to wander around or sit in one of the main waiting areas wondering if you;ll find the gate in time. Nor is there senior boarding – or even a line, for that matter!. Instead it’s a pushy NY type funneling action with passengers jockeying for position as they wave their tickets at the agent waving them through. Mind you I’m just saying I’m not disparaging my beloved Big Apple. Besides with my multi-year existence as a NY’er I am most adept at wiggling through small spaces. but that’s a subject for a future blog.
Anyway, that was my train of thought and I’d just begun to believe that the mystery surrounding the New York track departure was a security measure, when right then and there I saw that Washington has the Big Apple beat on that front too. As we seniors waited “In an orderly line,” as we’d been commanded. A security officer walked past accompanied by his bomb-sniffing Chocolate Labrador Retriever. Then he walked past again, and once more, and then, one more time for good measure, as the dog indulged in cursory sniffs of our luggage.
I smiled as I realized these dogs are also trained to sniff drugs. Wouldn’t it be funny if he found something referred to in 60’s vernacular as “Some good sh*t ?
Think about . Those of us line standers in our 60’s were the 60’s! That would have been Outta Sight, Man!
When I was a kid, I used to spend the month of August at a Girl Scout sleep-away camp. Come the end of July the counselors had had a month of camp songs and there was always one that they were thoroughly sick of. So it would be officially banned by the time I got there.
Well, that’s how I feel about a particular four letter word – the one referred to as the f-bomb. That baby’s been dropped so many times, I find it merely annoying, especially when people use it three or four times in one sentence. I’d be willing to start a movement for its retirement on the grounds that it’s become a cliché.
Let’s test that out.
From the Merriam-Webster online Dictionary:
Definition of CLICHÉ
1: a trite phrase or expression; also : the idea expressed by it
2: a hackneyed theme, characterization, or situation
3: something (as a menu item) that has become overly familiar or commonplace
Yep! It passes.
But it wasn’t always so. When I was growing up in the fifties, hearing it on the school playground, (the Catholic school playground)was extremely rare. And if it was heard, it would bring forth a chorus of
Ooh, I’m going to tell Sister what you said.
And at home, our parents mostly used thinly disguised phonetically-altered hybrids like Gosh, Darn, Heck, and Shucks. You could go to a slew of movies and never hear more than Hell or maybe Damn.
Then came the 60’s, which as anyone who lived through them knows, didn’t really happen until the 70’s. But somewhere between The Summer of Love , the Democratic Convention in Chicago, and the Student Uprisings, we found, (yes you and I fellow Baby-boomers) we needed something a bit stronger than Shucks. But when we dropped f-bombs we did it with conviction, and as a verb. It wasn’t a mere place holder in our sentences.
No, for that we had like, you know, and man.
Like you know what I’m saying man? Like we were just standing there rapping, like you know, like it went on for hours. And then before I knew it, it was like, you know, time to go home.
In the 70’s people had started using it as an adjective. The first time this was pointed out to me was at the Jersey Shore where I used to go in on a time share house. It was early in the summer when the Atlantic retains its chill, and there we were, a bevy of bikini clad beauties standing at the water’s edge when a couple of Jersey Boys decided to show off their prowess by running and diving headlong into the surf.
I was standing next to Marty, who despite her name, was a fragile looking classical beauty with long blond hair and a sensitive nature that served her well as an art teacher. When the tough guys came slinking out, complaining about how cold the F-ing ocean was, Marty turned to me and, in all sincerity asked “What did the ocean ever do to him?”
I hope Marty,wherever she is, is wearing earplugs these days.
I’ve been thinking about this need for a new four letter word for a while now, but I didn’t really take up the cause until St Patrick’s Day. No, no, it was the day before St Patrick’s Day when I displayed lack of judgment by going into Manhattan. I’d already made the commitment before learning the St Patrick’s Day parade was being moved up a day because the 17th fell on a Sunday. Now if you’ve been following my blog you might remember that, for me, the St Patrick’s Day parade ranks up there with a quadruple root canal.
I soothed myself with the thought. How bad can it be? It wasn’t like I’d be taking the last train home, the one that, on St Patrick’s Day, is called The Vomit Comet (need I say more?) No, I planned on taking the 5:10 when all the revelers would still be reveling for hours.
Well, I was wrong. The 5:10 was worse.
It resembled a high school field trip exploring the effects of alcohol. I walked through seven cars trying to find a quiet one with a slightly older crowd, like over 18. Then I turned around and walked back. I considered taking the next train, but feared it would be worse. Finally I found a middle aged man trying to hide in a book and settled in next to him, hoping no one would upchuck on the hour long ride until I could escape at Peekskill.
It was the longest hour I’ve ever experienced. I’d picked a winner of a train car and a bonus seat – in front of three rowdy girls who were cheerleaders for discord as in dissing (as the young folks say) every boy who was within shouting range.
Man, like you know, those f-bombs’s were flying like all the way home, you know
It was then, probably to preserve my sanity, that I started trying to come up with a substitute. It hasn’t been easy. For a while I thought about spam. Not the canned meat – the computer junk mail. Everybody hates wading through it .
Like you know, man delete, delete, delete. It just like drives me crazy.
I tried using it in context “This is really spammed up!” “What a spamming pain in the A…
Then I realized it would never catch on with the young. They don’t email. They text.
Then yesterday –Eureka – I came up with it. The four letter word that the younger generation discovers at an early age and uses ad nauseum. Come on, parents and teachers you know what it is. B O R E as in “I’m bored!” “This is boring!”
Whaddya think? Let’s try it out in re-describing that train ride home.
“I got to boring Grand Central and I had to walk through seven boring cars filled with boring teenagers to find a boring seat. Now how bored up was that, I ended up in front of a pack of boring loud girls and……”
Yep, that works for me!