How many times have you heard your mother say, “In my day...”. Yes, yes. In your day the world was a better place, pollen didn’t make you sneeze ‘cause the snuff was blocking your nose, one never got cold ‘cause we were drenched in fur and one never got sore ‘cause The Help did everything for you. Today, the world is a dreadful place. We suffer from black lung from fossil fuel (a modern invention of bad taste), your eyes and nose never stop running thanks to allergens such as bread, milk and other staples that keep the Third World alive, day to day. Is it true? Have we really gone backward?
You see a pair of laughing eyes, and suddenly you’re sighing sighs. Ah, the golden age of Crooners, the All American song book with black and white men illustrating every page, who weren’t exactly hot... but no lady could decline. We’d sip a Jack or a Johnnie out of a Stuart in a smoky leather lounge. Its a grayscale fairy-tale of Hollywood proportions.
Love today, its in full colour. I know what I want, when I want it. It has got so bad, that a friend of mine courting a psychedelic student was informed over their first acquaintance coffees together, the number of children, the size of the diamond and the year of the Wedding (which is not in the Chinese calendar, if you know what I mean). My mother was horrified. But this is the multi-hued romance of the 21st century. If you don’t want what I want, let’s not have a drink in a smoky bar and waste each others time. Women have lost the art of the tender trap.
We’re honest, brash and brazen. We don’t accept drinks for fear of spiking, we won’t accept rides cause we drive better than you do (my insurance quote says so) and I will not be wasting my time with you, unless you submit to my demands immediately after meeting me. We’re not dating, we’re taking hostages!
Did my grandmother have it right? I don’t think so, because even if she was right, I have the right to vote. I also have the right to earn more money than Dean, which is something Debbie Reynolds never achieved. And although Debbie got a kiss, a wink and a smooth smile, she never got her name above old blue-eyes and the boys. So no, we’ve come a long way. I for one am not going back, because although we could’ve smoked guilt-free with the Marlboro man, we would have died a painful mucus-y death alone, never knowing the joy of a Rat Pack Tribute concert with your true love by your side. We may not have romance, but we have Double Income No Kids.
You see a pair of laughing eyes, and suddenly you’re sighing sighs. Ah, the golden age of Crooners, the All American song book with black and white men illustrating every page, who weren’t exactly hot... but no lady could decline. We’d sip a Jack or a Johnnie out of a Stuart in a smoky leather lounge. Its a grayscale fairy-tale of Hollywood proportions.
Love today, its in full colour. I know what I want, when I want it. It has got so bad, that a friend of mine courting a psychedelic student was informed over their first acquaintance coffees together, the number of children, the size of the diamond and the year of the Wedding (which is not in the Chinese calendar, if you know what I mean). My mother was horrified. But this is the multi-hued romance of the 21st century. If you don’t want what I want, let’s not have a drink in a smoky bar and waste each others time. Women have lost the art of the tender trap.
We’re honest, brash and brazen. We don’t accept drinks for fear of spiking, we won’t accept rides cause we drive better than you do (my insurance quote says so) and I will not be wasting my time with you, unless you submit to my demands immediately after meeting me. We’re not dating, we’re taking hostages!
Did my grandmother have it right? I don’t think so, because even if she was right, I have the right to vote. I also have the right to earn more money than Dean, which is something Debbie Reynolds never achieved. And although Debbie got a kiss, a wink and a smooth smile, she never got her name above old blue-eyes and the boys. So no, we’ve come a long way. I for one am not going back, because although we could’ve smoked guilt-free with the Marlboro man, we would have died a painful mucus-y death alone, never knowing the joy of a Rat Pack Tribute concert with your true love by your side. We may not have romance, but we have Double Income No Kids.
