🕵️‍♂️ Ask Marlowe About Carbon Dating Apps

An advice column for the romantically restless and the technologically doomed.

By Philip C. Marlowe, Private Eye (Ret.)

Love.

It used to come in smoky bars and bad lighting. Preferably in a nice neighbourhood to have bad habits in. Now it comes through apps with names that sound like cut-rate vitamins sold on Temu.

I’ve seen dames fall for crooks, crooks fall for dames, and it was a beautiful thing to witness. Now I’m seeing twitterpated septuagenarians fall for login screens. I never would have believed guys and molls could have fallen so far so fast, but then, I thought the same thing about American democracy. Slip yourself a prune juice mickey and read on.

💌 Dear Marlowe,

I joined OKBoomer because I figured it was safe — no scams, no kids, no one trying to sell me essential oils. But every man I match with just wants to talk about the time they almost saw Hendrix live. How do I find someone who’ll actually go out for coffee and a slice of pie instead of reminiscing about buying his first real six-string at the Five and Dime in the summer of ’69?

— Dolores, 74

🕶️ Marlowe says:

Kid, nostalgia’s the new catnip. These fellas are high on their own memories, which abandoned ship about the time Cream broke up. Next time one starts name-dropping Woodstock, ask him what kind of pie he likes. If he says “humble,” reader, you marry him.

💌 Dear Marlowe,

On OurTimeZone, I met a gent who wakes up at 3:45 a.m. sharp “to seize the day.” I told him I seize it around 9:30 after a latte and a series of gentle groans. He unmatched me for being “unmotivated.” Should I adjust my alarm — or his attitude?

— Doris, 68

🕶️ Marlowe says:

You can’t change a rooster into an owl, sweetheart. Let him chase the dawn alone while you chase comfort under a quilt. Compatibility isn’t about time zones — it’s about who hogs the blanket. Maybe get yourself one of those hand-knitted weighted jobs on Amazon. At least it won’t snore.

💌 Dear Marlowe,

I’ve been on SilverFoxhole for three months. Every man my age lists “dancing” as an interest, but when I suggest a trip to the Legion some Friday night, they claim their knees are “classified.” False advertising or just arthritis?

— Rita, 71

🕶️ Marlowe says:

Doll, they’re not lying — they’re reminiscing. “Dancing” means “once danced without medical supervision.” If you want real movement, try line dancing with a defibrillator nearby. That’s romance with a pulse. Just don’t trip over the extension cord.

💌 Dear Marlowe,

On Tinder-itis, my screen froze mid-swipe and the app matched me with my ex-husband. I reported it as a technical glitch. The app said it was “a rekindling opportunity.” Should I update my firmware or my standards?

— Gladys, 70

🕶️ Marlowe says:

When fate and bad coding team up, run. Some ghosts are better left in the recycle bin. Delete, defrag and defrost your dignity.

💌 Dear Marlowe,

Tried Wrinklr. My match sent me a photo of a spindle adapter for a 45 record and said, “This is my safe space.” As a joke, I sent him a photo of the equally spidery laugh lines around my eyes. He replied, “Unsubscribe.” What gives?

— Earlene, 78

🕶️ Marlowe says:

Sweetheart, wrinkles tell stories. If he can’t read yours, he’s illiterate in life. Send him packing with a mixtape labelled “Your Loss, Side A.” Actually, better make it an 8-track cartridge so he can listen to it while hauling junk to the dump in his 1989 Dodge Dakota Sport Convertible.

💌 Dear Marlowe,

Met a gent on SageMates who quotes Nietzsche at dinner and says dessert is a “bourgeois illusion.” I just wanted marzipan. Is there a philosopher who believes in Cherry Jell-O?

— Marianne, 67

🕶️ Marlowe says:

Tell him so long, Marianne. There’s no philosophy worth skipping dessert for. Dump Socrates, find someone who knows the difference between a deep thought and a deep dish. Enough already with heartbreak à la mode.

💌 Dear Marlowe,

I’m on Plenty of Fish Oil. My cardiologist recommended it. I met a stalker who tracks my steps — literally, through the app. He says it’s romantic. I say it’s surveillance. Who’s right?

— Geraldine, 73

🕶️ Marlowe says:

If he knows your pulse along with y0ur middle name, that’s not romance — it’s either reconnaissance or a hit by the Police. Unpair that Fitbit before it reports you to Homeland Security.

💌 Dear Marlowe,

On SeniorMatcha, my date kept meditating during dinner. I tried to make conversation, but he said I was “interrupting his mindfulness.” Should I have joined him in silence or hit him with the teapot?

— Elaine, 69

🕶️ Marlowe says:

Sometimes silence is golden. Other times, it’s insensitive, discourteous and rude. Next time he zones out, take his wallet and see whether enlightenment covers the bill.

🕵️‍♂️ SIGNING OFF

That’s all for this week, lovebirds. Remember: whether your heart’s on fire or just on Wi-Fi, keep your passwords strong and your expectations stronger.

Got a love mystery, a bad match or a burning complaint about your blood pressure monitor syncing to your ex? Write to me:

Philip C. Marlowe, P.O. Box 1949 Culver City, CA 90232 “Where heartbreak meets black coffee.”