Author: Scott Adamson

Funny story – funny in the sense that the sentient robots who run the Google Machine are now trying to play matchmaker for me.

If you read anything I write, you probably already know I’m big into sports history. This requires doing a good deal of research, and being a native of Birmingham, Alabama, means a lot of what I’m looking for involves sports related to my hometown.

Legion Field is the venerable football stadium there; it opened in 1927 and is still in use today. Like most stadiums it has a nickname, and one of them is “The Old Gray Lady.” It’s located on Graymont Avenue in Birmingham, so the nick is clever – especially now that it’s 93 years old.

Well, apparently during one of my research days I Googled “The Old Gray Lady” and the next thing I know I’m getting emails and pop-up advertisements for senior dating sites.

First it was “Silver Singles” and then “Real Mature Singles” and they were followed by several others that I’m simply afraid to click on. Let’s face it – “Find naughty grannies in your area” would take me down a rabbit hole I might never escape.

Before I go any further, let me state that I’m happily married and not looking to date anyone other than my wife.

Doing so would be rude.

But the emails have targeted me correctly in terms of my age.

Although I’ve never taken a deep dive into services such as eHarmony or Match.com, I assume their primary audience consists of people who skew much younger than I do.

Many of them have never used rotary telephones, never watched “The F.B.I.” starring Efrem Zimbalist, Jr., and never dined on ‘”TV dinners” consisting of congealed leather, instant mashed potatoes and pea-like orbs wrapped in aluminum foil and cooked for 45 to 50 minutes in a conventional oven.

All of these are familiar to me and – I assume – familiar to the women who use Silver Singles, Real Mature Singles, etc.

Oh, the things we could talk about …

“Hey, do you remember those TV dinners we used to eat?”

“I do! I’d usually eat them while watching ‘The FBI,’ starring Efrem Zimbalist, Jr.”

“I’d eat mine while talking on the rotary phone.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Well, goodnight.”

(Since we’re older, we’d cut to the chase and end the date early because we’d need to get home and take our pills).

Anyway, during the first wave of these emails I did open a few of them simply out of curiosity. One, for example, is designed for people who are over 50 but “young at heart.”

I’ve never really understood what that even means. I like music and movies that appeal to people much younger than me, but I don’t like pea carrot spinach mush served from a glass jar or baby formula, which appeals to people much, much younger than me.

It did, however, show photos of couples who found their later-in-life soul mates through the service. None of these people looked 50. None even looked 40.

If I’m gonna date someone who is at least 50, I want to see a few gray hairs and wrinkles. I also wouldn’t mind a faded, bluish “Keep On Truckin’” tattoo on the calf of their left leg, but that’s really more of a personal kink and not necessarily a deal-breaker.

Another guarantees the singles on their site are “at least 50 years young.”

None of those 48 or 49-year old posers here – these folks are half a hundred if they’re a damn day. I noticed there was no age maximum, though. So I guess it would be possible for a 75-year old to hook up with a 50-year old, which would be a May-December romance – or probably closer to a November and April of next year kinda thing.

And a third promotes an “old-fashioned romance for old-fashioned people.”

Again, I’m not certain what their definition of “old-fashioned” is.

Do the women not vote? Do the men smoke unfiltered Lucky Strikes? During their first meeting at a restaurant do they have to report other diners who they believe to be sympathetic to the Communist Party?

Fortunately, I don’t know and don’t have to find out. Regardless of what my search engine suggests, when I put in the words “gray” and “lady” it has nothing to do with dating.

Hopefully these emails and ads will soon run their course and I won’t have to spend so much time weeding them out while studying sports history. As a matter of fact, I’m currently working on a piece about international soccer and researching the Swiss club BSC Young Boys.

Googling “Young Boys” shouldn’t cause any problems for me …

With many of us under quarantine and spending more time at home than we could ever imagine, undertaking household projects is at an all-time high.

Instead of hearing the sound of cars whooshing down the road or the dull roar of planes flying overhead, my neighborhood cacophony is the result of chainsaws and hammers.

And with plenty of time on my hands, there are many things I should be doing with my hands to spruce up our domicile.

The patio is overdue for some pressure-washing, and the steps leading up to the porch are begging for a weatherproofing treatment.

My fan cave is in need of a fresh coat of paint, and the door knob leading into it ought to be replaced. Really, I could go into any room in our house and find something to repair.

However, I’m not gonna do any of that stuff because I have not now nor have I ever been what you might call “handy.” In fact, when it comes to that sort of thing, I’m what you might call “stupid.”

I was never mechanically inclined, and never had any inclination to want to be mechanically inclined.

I remember when I was a kid, Pop (my dad) would be down in the driveway working on his car and he’d ask me if I wanted to peer under the hood and watch what he was doing.

I did not.

I viewed cars then as I view cars now – vessels used to get me from one place to another. I didn’t care what they looked like on the inside, didn’t care how they worked – as long as a vehicle transported me, I had all the information I needed.

Once, our old-style television (the kind encased in luxurious wood) stopped working and Pop decided to open it up from the back and see if he could figure out what the problem was. He asked me if I wanted to “help” as he fiddled with the ol’ cathode-ray tubes.

I did not.

Again, all I wanted from the TV was the ability to see “Batman” and “Honey West.” I certainly didn’t want to get all up in its business.

As the years went by my interests started to vary, of course. I went from liking girls to liking women; playing and watching sports to watching and writing about sports; and being obsessed with reading comic books to being obsessed watching movies based on comic books.

At no point, however, have I ever looked at a broken appliance and said, “You know what – I’m gonna grab some tools and fix that bastard.”

Oh, there were times when I felt the need to make an effort. Once I was gifted a gas grill which came completely unassembled. There were nuts and bolts and levers and knobs, and I was only about three pages into the instruction manual when I started gently weeping.

I spent an entire Saturday morning, afternoon and early evening piecing together this monstrosity and once it was finished it looked like a broken Transformers toy.

I named it “Optimus What The Hell” and never even bothered to hook it to a propane tank because that would’ve ended quite horribly.

Years ago I thought I would impress Mary by putting up door blinds. This seemed like a simple enough task, requiring just some screws and brackets.

It took me several hours to get it done but when I was finished the blinds were nice and straight – although I was a little surprised that they didn’t seem to be the right length.

It was only later when Mary came home, opened the door and crashed through the blinds that I discovered they needed to be attached to the door itself, and not to the trim above the door.

My bad.

Oddly, I do have a savant-like talent for toilets. Give me a toilet ball cock and I’ll have it installed in no time. (First I’ll giggle, though, because “toilet ball cock” is hilarious).

For reasons I’ll never be able to explain, I can take the lid off the tank of a toilet, survey the situation, figure out the problem, and quickly resolve it. I guess you could call me the “Shitter Whisperer.”

Otherwise, if you need a Mr. Fix-It you’ll have to get your fix from another mister, because I ain’t him.

It’s not that I’m too stupid to learn, it’s that I’m too stupid and too uninterested to learn.