Let’s start with women. There’s nothing nicer than a beautifully dressed, stylish female heading your way, even for one of my advanced years. Today’s women have a certain something that is appealing, a style that I like. Until, that is, I notice all too often that they are chewing gum. The mystery evaporates, the charm is gone; bovine visions cloud the mind. Even worse: when they think they can improve on what God gave them by getting their ankles and shoulders tattooed. Tattoos are for sailors.

One of my great pleasures–diminishing phenomena–is a leisurely dinner at a fine restaurant. The waiter appears and says, ““Hi! I’m Bob and I’ll be waiting on you tonight.’’ ““OK,’’ you think, and file his name away in case you need him. Orders delivered by the eager waiter, you turn to serious conversation with your companion. It doesn’t matter if you’re engaged in a business deal or a seduction; at the crucial moment, Bob will appear and demand: ““Is everything all right?’’ He will not be denied; he waits and stares like a hungry puppy until you reply. The idea of waiters (no, I will not say ““waitpersons’’) being seen but not heard has been lost forever.

Before the meal, you probably went to the washroom. You turn on the faucet and note that it’s one of those newfangled kinds that’s supposed to turn itself off. Fine; let water be conserved. But nine times out of 10, you are back at your table before the water stops running. Or it turns off before the soap is rinsed from your hands. The bureaucrat who forced the restaurateur to buy the ““water saver’’ feels virtuous in the name of conservation, but we’d all be better off if he had trusted people’s good sense.

Recently, I went into a doctor’s office for an appointment. The receptionist, in the informal way of today, called me Henry, though we’d never met. It made me uncomfortable, implying a familiarity that didn’t exist. A woman doctor I saw on TV made the point that male doctors often called their female patients by their first names, while expecting to be called Dr. So-and-So. She suggested a polite demurrer to such treatment. I couldn’t help remembering the ’40s and ’50s, when blacks in my native Texas were seldom called ““Mr. Jones’’ or ““Mrs. Smith.’’ They were called ““Joe’’ or ““Sally’’ by total strangers, one more put-down in a segregated world. The civil-rights movement remedied that slight–too long ago for the receptionist to know about. I considered giving her a history lesson, but what’s the use; she’d have thought me a weirdo.

In my youth, there was in my city of San Antonio, Texas, a bookstore called Rosengren’s. When you needed a book for Aunt Liz’s birthday, Mrs. Rosengren could, after a few questions, recommend just the thing. She was as literate as she was considerate. Not long ago, I went into a giant store that sells discount books. I asked where I might find Bibles. The attendant replied, ““Dunno. If we have them, they’ll be on the last aisle to the right.’’ I was lucky he knew that much.

I’ve got lots of semantic grumps. I get tired of swearing overheard in public. Provoked, I can turn the air blue with the best of them, but I don’t use the F word as an augmentative with every noun, regardless of who might hear.

And the other day I was reading a New York Times article dating from World War II. I noted with surprise that the reporters constantly referred to ““our troops.’’ Today a reporter wouldn’t dream of saying such a thing; he would show his impartiality by referring to ““American troops.’’ I guess I’m silly, but I thought most of those guys were American, too.

Lest I forget, let me say how tired I am of hearing the young say ““go’’ instead of ““say,’’ as in ““He goes that he was . . .’’ And the constant intercalations, such as ““like’’ or ““I mean’’ or ““you know.’’ Listen to your average teenagers being interviewed on TV and you wouldn’t know that English was their native language.

Another thing. Press reports often say after a bombing: ““Terrorists claimed credit for the deed.’’ If I were the editor, I’d say ““accepted blame.’’ Murder of innocent bystanders doesn’t strike me as very creditable. And I get tired of cute labels. Young hoods who deface other people’s property with graffiti are called ““taggers’’ or ““kids,’’ as if they were just naughty pranksters. We’re so anxious to avoid offense that we blur what is offensive.

Often the desirable is taken to absurd lengths. A friend of mine, proud owner of a new building, was ticketed by the handicap inspectors for not having the sign on his office door in Braille. Which reminds me: who are these ““consumer advocate’’ groups we read about? They are quoted as if they were experts on everything, selflessly battling for me and my ““rights.’’ I don’t recall retaining them.

A point of curiosity: we worry about drunk drivers. Why, then, don’t we have Breathalyzers in bars? Maybe most of us are too macho to consider checking to see if we’re too drunk to drive. Call me Pollyanna, but I’d wager a few folks would check before they went home. And why doesn’t someone invent an inexpensive test for sobriety? One you can buy at the drugstore.

Finally, I really get a pain from the tut-tutters who decry the CIA’s hiring shady characters to work for them. Come on. In today’s world, if our intelligence people don’t hire an occasional thug, they’ll never find out anything and malefactors will keep on blowing up planes and running drugs by the ton into our country.

Whew! I’m glad to get all that off my chest. By now you may be wondering if there is anything or anyone I do like. Yes, there is. I like Andy Rooney; he’s as grumpy as I am. Almost.