Steve Moseley

A friend and fellow columnist’s recent barbed diatribe on the topic of how some folks in our formerly polite society believe pajama pants are suitable for public display was spot-on … poke-‘em-in-the-eye amusing.

Night clothes on the street or wandering store aisles annoy the bejesus out of me, too. Were you raised by wolves, sir or madam? I also share her column topic, vis-a-vis britches drooping beneath gelatinous, jiggling buns as if to shore up the fleshy orbs, not hold up the pants as the inventor of belt loops clearly intended.

Anyone who knows me and my curmudgeon take on life may have already guessed that I, too, have similar complaints.

Let’s begin with a big one; caps worn backwards. Arrgghh!

Baseball and softball catchers, boat drivers (we call it "speed lock") and precious few other adults, in my jaundiced view, are permitted to reverse the bill of their cap — that unique appendage clearly designed to shade and shield the face.

I completely understand mine is the perspective of a fossil on this mass social affliction, yet I am compelled to press my minority point of view nonetheless.

First, this ubiquitous habit is blatantly silly on its face. Cap reversal instantly negates the No. 2 reason for wearing one in the first place, which is to shield the eyes. Properly mounted, this clever device enhances vision by protecting the face from blistering sun or its opposite number, pelting rain.

My No. 1 reason for donning a cap in the first place is to cover an exposed, bald pate (mine, for one) from suffering the otherwise-certain prospect of blistered skin blotches and, further, to mitigate discomfort when the VA dermatologist stalks toward me clutching a lesion-freezing torture device when the annual skin appointment rolls around.

Perhaps we can agree the cap points downrange, permanently, at age 21. If you are adult enough to buy a beer, goes my thinking, you’re old enough to look like an adult. A 50-year-old with his cap reversed? Icky poo.

Moving southward, anatomically speaking, even a style-challenged 76-year-old like me is repulsed at the sight of a fellow bird-legged old rooster wandering around in the light of public view decked out in shorts with sandals over black socks tugged al-l-l-l-l the way to his knees. Shorter socks that reveal blue veins, bony shins and alabaster skin? Even worse.

Do not misunderstand, I wear sandals during all save the most frigid months of the year. But never, ever with socks? Mortified grandkids would drum me out of the family.

I could go on … so let’s.

This next gripe moves the needle from annoyance straight to rage.

When I encounter a vehicle in traffic or a parking lot somewhere and see an adult puffing a cigarette with children aboard, I go a little berserk.

That we have ignorant, no-class folks wandering loose around America today is obvious by many measures. But the selfish, mini-minds guilty of this offense are the worst of it.

If there is a modern upside, it’s that nowadays smoking is much less socially tolerated than years ago. Back when, I myself burned a pack of Marlboro reds a day for 35 years. But in the house or an occupied vehicle? Never.

The best part of smoking for me is, I kicked ‘em 20 years ago. So, to quote Carl Spackler (have you seen Caddyshack a couple dozen times, like me), “I’ve got that going for me, which is nice.”