PLAIN-OLD-FUN
(noun)
- 1: that which provides amusement or enjoyment that's not too complicated and either has been around for a long time or is being practiced by someone in the Fourth Quarter of Life ... or both.
- 2: a mood for finding or making amusement that has been around for some-say too long a time (time-tested! 😴) or is being perpetrated by some Old Fart.
- 3 : derisive jest that's gettin' old 😆or is being carried out by someone Old Enough to Know Better.
- 4: quotidian excited activity or argument in a Nursing Home.
Personally? I don't think we ever get too old to mess around -- take that, as you may and with reference to action in any room in your house that you choose! Hell! Write your own definitions, if you like.
I have known people who struggle with play. Once, M and I were eating dinner with a colleague who ordered a Vodka Martini with one olive. A few minutes later, the waiter reappeared with a highball glass filled with liquid, a charming little mixer-straw and two -- mind you, two -- green olives at the bottom. He looked at it for just an extra second or two ... looked up at the waiter and articulated slow-and-clear:
I distinctly remember asking YOU for ONE olive.How many DO YOU SEE?
I'm confident that the smart-enough waiter recognizing a sphinctor magnum when he saw one -- one magnificent sphinctor and not more -- returned to his kitchen, stuck two fingers into the Martini, grabbing one olive and eating it, and then without hesitation spitting into the glass and returning it to my colleague, the diner.
This past weekend was punctuated now and then by some such fussy Old Folk but largely was a joy. I had been asked by the kindly and intellectually interested editor who had -- with an even touch -- shepherded the book to completion ... to talk to a distinguished audience of her colleagues in the Big City and to do a book-signing for the newly re-edited paperback version of a twenty year old work of mine. I was the Country Mouse (c'est moi) thrilled to be asked by the Big Ole City Mice (I think they're called rats, y'know!) to come and strut my stuff.
Any case? I had a good time. My colleagues do tend to have some resistance to letting down their hair and having Plain-Old-Fun; as I said, they get fussy. Still, if pressed, some of them can reluctantly be encouraged to come along for a brief ride. I began with a picture from the front cover, explaining that while it might be that some would think me the
model for either or both of the Michelangelo bodies presented, I assured them that that was not the case. The ideas for the book, I explained, percolated during a talk I was listening to in 1979 ... a mere 37 years ago ... and the hardcover first version appeared nearly 20 years ago. I got a couple-a snickers about the model-thing but no real laughter.
Tough audience.
Then, I went on to précis the central argument of the nearly 500 page book. In brief, it suggested that Freud had made parts of his sexual-theorie of neurosis a bit too specific. Socialization had to be more than, say, Peter Arno's view of the little boy -- one close to the memory that Freud reported in 1897 in a letter to a friend. He was traveling on a train from Leipzig to Vienna and saw "Matrem in Nudam." Gee, I said: "Freud saw his Mama in Latin." Just sayin'.
Maybe a little titter from the distinguished audience.
But when I began reporting how I had modified my own understanding of das keed's difficulties with Mama and Papa (again, I like Arno's take on the kid's difficulty conceptualizing sex, aggression and anxiety, in one mouthful); the audience got nervous.
Curious how many members of the audience needed, at this point, to stress their own notions about how -- one could say -- a Martini should be garnished. One analyst kept repeating the words "Melanie Klein" ... another "Sigmund Freud" ... I hear "Laius" mentioned a bit too often, as well. These were like mantras ... or cheers in a Soccer Stadium ... this group promoting this team ... the other? another. I say:
"Hey, youse Guys ... Don'tcha wanna get into my boat and row just a little bit with me?"
At one point, I found myself like Nipper, the RCA Dog listening to the Voice of the Master with his/my head cocked and not really hearing the words. Then, I explained to them one addendum to my theory, namely and somewhat contrary to what one might expect in reading Freud: my colleagues historically seemed to have no problem with me and M mucking around in private but when I expressed my own ideas 37 years ago, damn-it-was that just about all the shit hit the fan. Whoa!
Anyhow ... I was having Plain-Old-Fun and the City Mice seemed to wanna play fa'keeps. There were, indeed, exceptions ... as I noticed, particularly, the conference planner and editor and two quite brilliant speakers ... and Irishman and a Czech lady. Me, too. I suppose one doesn't write a 500 page book without a smidgeon of seriousness but, still and all, isn't there room left for Old Folk to skip down the street, or to still play catch with a ball or with ideas? What the hay! WTF!
And what to say? Next day, M and I came back to Philadelphia ... Up in New Yawk, everybody's got a dog in just about every fight ... but credit to Howard? he got at least some of the Big Boys and Girls to let down some of their (remaining) hairs and play.
Good job, Howard!
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So, that's what happened when two Old Folks tried to play together in the City where the speed-limit on the sidewalks is "over 6 mph" (or get run-down), two eggs and toast cost $15 and $4.50 buys you yesterday's coffee in a paper cup in a cheap hotel! (I jest ... the audience was great even if they could be watertight ... like a clam's ass. ... ach du lieber ... The Fourth Quarter is, after all, known for its Gastro problems!)
All this to say? We did have a good time.
And, so it was that the two Country Mice went backto their Home in the Woods, in William Penn's Sylvan Green& Groaned and Kvetched Happily.
(and for the moment) THAT'S ALL, FOLKS
