No Rolled Trousers in this Alphabet

The Granny Alphabet, that is.

The editorial blurb from Amazon goes like this:  Spirited, stylish, sweet—here are granny archetypes of every stripe.

Of every stripe and plaid and check as well, if the sample pix on Amazon are anything to go by.

My namesake with her knitting. 

Call me crankytrousers, but I don't find this double volume set of photos and cartoons very charming at all. In fact, I find it more than a little creepy. I have nothing against "spirited, stylish and sweet"--okay, maybe I have something against sweet.  I don't have anything against old ladies in general, being one myself. If these dames want to dress up and have their pictures taken by some sweet-talking photographer, who am I to grouse?

So, why am I grousing?  Maybe its because the "granny archetypes" seem more like "granny stereotypes." As we all know, stereotypes exist because there is more than a grain of truth in them, but we don't all have canes, dowager humps, or straight from the 60's mink coats, or lie in bed surrounded by hatboxes as we await transport to the closet in the sky.

Or maybe it's the patronizing attitude behind the whole venture.  As though it is just so cute that someone who is old, old, old still wants to dress up and be seen, even if they look like something out of Monty Python. And, yes, by the way this whole enterprise is British and maybe "Granny" is a sub-culture there, like Goth or Surfer and I am just not getting it.

Excuse me while I cover myself in hand knits and take a few nips of the medicinal brandy as I ponder my own sorry position in the world of style.








This book was being flogged on one of my favorite blogs The Sartorialist, a photographer of street style who on occasion takes photos of older folk who catch his eye.  

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Cinema Inferno

The first movie I ever saw in a theater was Alice in Wonderland (Disney not Depp).  In glorious color. It was awesome. I don't remember much about it, but my mother took me and, I think, my aunt, downtown to see it. I'm sure there was no buttered popcorn or Junior Mints in the experience because first, I would have been wearing a clean, starched, and ironed dress, and second, we lived in No-Candyland, except for the occasional Hershey bar my father would sneak in and split among us. No matter. What I didn't know about, I didn't miss. What I did know was that walking into that dark theater and seeing giant cartoons in front of me was pure magic. An American Cinema Paradiso.

Flash forward to 2013.  A new cinema has opened not far from my home.  I wish I could say that I am excited that the musty old multiplex has been renovated and that I look forward to visiting. But I can't. I fear this cranky old crone-nut is not  Showcase Superlux material. The cinema is part of the swanky new "lifestyle complex," The Street At Chestnut Hill, and, apart from my general lack of interest in lifestyle complexes, there is a reason I won't be experiencing the Superlux Experience any time soon.

Not that Superlux has absolutely zero appeal. Even if management can't guarantee that every flick features Superlux Story, Acting, or Direction, I might have been persuaded by the Superlux Seats which recline and have footrests,the Superlux Technology with state of the art bells and whistles, the Superlux Carpeting with no gum stuck to it, and the Superlux Restrooms which must boast red carpet amenities and nary a wad of sodden toilet paper to sully their Superlux Floors.

But the Superlux Experience has one big Superlux Feature that turns it into Cinema Inferno.

It's not  the admission price tag which tops out at a hellish $28, although I do admit to a bit of sticker shock since the last movie I went to cost $7.50.  And, no that wasn't in the year ought-five, it was last Friday evening.  

It's not even the circles-of-hell tiered system of admissions--Lux Lite (a mere $20) and Superlux--with their different levels of cushiness and service, like a plane. (There doesn't appear to be a Geezer Discount, which in and of itself isn't the deal breaker.)

No, It's the diabolical Superlux Food and Beverage Service. Yes, service.  Superluxians can order food and drink right without getting off their Superlux Tushes--and it will be delivered to them by black-clad waitrons at any time. Yes, any time, including during the movie.

Won't that be exciting? Watching all those servers stumbling around with trays full of $9 Margaritas and micro-brews, instead of watching the screen?  Smelling the delightful aromas of appetizers ($8-16) wafting through the auditorium? Hot dog! Every film will be "Smell-o-Vision." (If you want a chuckle, click the link to find out how that technology worked out.)  Will they suspend service at crucial moments? Or will you listen to the big reveal or the deathbed confession over the sound of  "Which one of you ordered the Thai rolls?" I have been both audience and performer in smallish theaters, and I can assure you that someone chowing down a Carnivore's Delight pizza or digging into a mound of malodorous take-out is quite the, um, Experience.  And it ain't Superlux.  Not to mention the to-ing and fro-ing which I would find mighty distracting.

If you create an atmosphere of a cocktail lounge happy hour, no matter how upmarket, how do you think the patrons will behave? Like people who are there to be absorbed in the movie? Or people who are out to par-tay? Will there be Superlux Cones of Silence to drop around them? Or do the waitrons double as bouncers?

I understand the commercial impulse behind all this. There is nothing wrong with wanting people to leave their comfy caves and spend money in your entertainment establishment.  I hope people have a rip-roaring good time and that they feel their triple-digit evening at the movies is worth it. I hope that no one has a plate of pulled pork dropped onto a silk blouse or wind up with a lapful of brewski. I hope that "Sh-h-h" doesn't escalate to "Shut the %@#* up!"

But I won't be there to find out. I recently figured out how to operate the remote controls for the superlux technology that has stood idle here in Trousertown for many a year,  I am more than happy to lounge around the den where the only Smell-O-Vision is the scent of pine trees and the ocean. Where I can loll shoeless, clutching my beverage of choice. Where I can unapologetically binge-watch "Game of Thrones" and "Breaking Bad" and "Duck Dynasty." Best of all? No Cones of Silence will ever be required.

Deluged with Invitations

Now that I am on the A (for Aged) List, not a day goes by without a thrilling invitation.  Why just today I received not one, but two, from Hebrew Senior Life, a nearby organization which offers programs and services to, you guessed it, live seniors. 

I was just bowled over by the fact that they are a "Harvard Medical School Affiliate," because it is heartening to know that there are professional geriatricians behind the exciting opportunities on offer.

The first invite was rather pedestrian:  visit the website, download an  ebook, put your name and contact info on a sucker list for further importunings.  Well, they didn't exactly say the third thing, but I am old!  I didn't just fall off the marketing cabbage cart!  My eyesight may be dimming, but I can see what they are up to! 

But, by gorry, (geezer-speak for "by god") it is hard to resist the title: ReAge Your Personal Health: A Wellness Guide for Older Adults. ReAge? You mean I have to do this all over again? Wonder what little communications major came up with that bit of gobbledy-gook (geezer-speak for "bullshit).

The second invite was much more exciting: The Spring 2013 College of Retirement Living(SM), A Celebration of Aging in Words & Images.  My college was never like this. Oh, wait, it was the sixties, the color schemes were similar.

Judging by the cover photo you celebrate by slapping on some red lipstick and dressing up in an enormous hat and oversized sunglasses.

No wonder.  Session 1 is Advanced Style with Ari Seth Cohen, a lovely young photojournalist who is the Sartorialist of the Bubbie Set.  I have looked at his blog a couple of times and as a woman with a closet so full of gray, black, and dark brown that I need a miner's headlamp to tell the trousers from the tee shirts, I find it rather disturbing.

 Ari Seth Cohen's idea of photo-worthy elder fashionistas goes something like this:

Superheroines of the Fashion Revolution.

and this:

Florida, here I come.

All right, they don't all look like that, but even the more, uh, subdued, look like Joan Collins on acid.

Now, where did I put that paisley?

Enough, go visit his blog, but be sure to put on your oversized sunglasses, because if you don't,  your eyeballs will explode. Even better, put on your oversized sunglasses, your red lipstick, and every technicolor fashion mistake you have lurking in those boxes that have never made it to Goodwill, and meet him in person. On May 8. I'd love to include a link, but I couldn't find the event on-line.  Maybe you have to be on the A for Alter Cocker (Yiddish for old fart) List.