Girls were Girls and Men were Men
"Boy, the way Glenn Miller played songs that made the Hit Parade, guys like us we had it made, those were the days. And you knew who you were then, girls were girls and men were men. Mister, we could use a man like Herbert Hoover again."
Those of a certain age will recognize the opening verses to the theme song of television's 1970s Norman Lear hit, All in the Family, as the two main characters of the program, Edith and Archie Bunker, sat singing at the piano reminiscing about the good old days prior to and following WWII in America. It seems that, by the late 1960s and early '70s, the world had gone topsy-turvy for the two main characters, and they no longer felt as though they knew who was who, or what was what.
Boy, they should only be here now to witness that even our great American institutions of lower reading are joining into the act and confusing the centerfold pages with turnabouts and gender flip-flopping females, I think.
I say I think because frankly, I don't keep up with the latest in men wearing dresses, women wearing coveralls, chopping off this appendage, or sewing on or growing on some of those.
I am simply a simple man, and thankful I'm not a young man trying to date here in the early 21st century. Though I'm open minded and willing to change my thinking on almost anything that seems reasonable, I did prefer the days when you knew who you were. When girls were girls and men were men. Yeah, in certain circles I'm old-fashioned and likely fodder to be burned at the stake for being backwards, unenlightened, and not "woke."
Now, just days after the death of Hugh Hefner, his glorious creation built on the images of curvy women who were all woman, will feature a transgendered specimen in its glossy pages. Can't wait for it to hit the newsstands? Click here.
Otherwise, I'm not going to look up the definitions or bore you with psychological and physiological details of what transgendered means compared to crossdressing, or why some women struggle with removing body hair while others court growing it. I don't care that much to begin with, but I think we're talking about a person who was a boy and got it all the way cut off. A Bruce Jenner type, I suppose.
About the most concern I have for others around me are whether or not they're jerks or nice folks. I prefer the company of nice folks without regard to what's in their pants, or the deep, dark recesses of their minds.
I've come to the age where none of that matters to me, not even Playboy magazine in general, or its slick photos of too-skinny women in their birthday suits. The swimsuit edition of Lane Bryant is more my speed now, and I won't pretend to you that I look at it for the informative articles and the bawdy jokes.