The debilitating debauchery of Thanksgiving Eve

I’m seriously fishing through my undependable memory banks in order to make a point. Back in the day when Howard Stern had his free morning FM radio show, back when Jackie Martling was still his sidekick, Martling, the degenerate and dissolute comic, was fond of calling the Wednesday night before Thanksgiving the “biggest party night of the year.” I can’t say how accurate this is, but I can’t argue it either. I sort of agree. In my prime partying days, it was the no-holds-barred sojourn into depravity that no other day of the year could match. New Year’s Eve is overly-hyped and usually falls flat; Halloween is grueling, no doubt, but many times it is confined to a work- or school- night and extreme partying isn’t wise. But that Wednesday night before Thanksgiving is an unrestrained celebration of fucking debauchery. For most folks, it marks the onset of a four-day holiday. Four days of eating, football (if that’s your thing), sleeping, gaining weight…what better way to herald the arrival of such a festive memorial than to get loaded into the wee hours of the morning?

Wednesday nights before Thanksgiving now will usually find me close to home, if not at home, such as tonight, on the computer while my son plays video games in the background. There comes a time in your life in which you essentially reach a point where you’ve expended most of the wildness from “your system.” I can sincerely say that these late November Wednesdays are old news for me.

It didn’t help that my birthday falls at the end of November, and frequently, on that Wednesday I speak of. During my college years, Wednesday night, throughout the year, was the designated night me and my buddies went out. While in in college there is no such thing as a “school” night. You can tie one on and drag yourself to class the next day…or miss it altogether in order to spend all that time buried beneath the ungracious sheets while you shiver through the ravages of alcoholic toxicity’s legacy 24 hours later. We took full advantage of this irresponsible freedom/privilege. Most times, our Wednesday nights were punctuated and structured around the main event: bowling. The first game might be a symbolic gesture of sportsmanship and physical diligence, by the second game and beyond, bowling as a skill began to slip into the backseat of priorities and the booze’s refrain began to usurp all motivations. We didn’t get trashed every week, but we did drink every time. Some choice drunken Wednesday night moments included a wet reckless for one of us, one awesomely degenerate night we took to rolling toilet paper rolls from the public restroom down the lanes, and a host of other besotted stupidity.

And these were just regular ol’ Wednesday nights any time of year.
Add in the supplemental ingredient of it being a Wednesday before Thanksgiving and you were looking at some serious trouble.

I’ll never forget one pre-Thanksgiving Wednesday.

Normally, there were three of us but if the night was special and we felt like broadening the scope of our depravity, we would invite outsiders. This particular Wednesday I vaguely recall a few “extras” in our normal bowling mission. We bowled and drank like there was no tomorrow (other than Thanksgiving). Dude, we drank everything in sight. I drank some of that nasty Mickey’s Malt Liquor from a big mouth bottle. It tasted rancid, but in the midst of a good drunk, you don’t pay attention to the taste. That would be like a bulemic complaining about the saltiness of the Linguine just before heading to the bathroom. Nope, we drank and got loaded. Most of all, me. I remember Mickey’s big mouth. I remember that, for whatever reason, we crashed at a friend’s parent’s house even though I only lived about 5 minutes away. We crashed hard. I, the archetypal bowling nerd, had a bag and a ball. None of that house-ball shit for me. We were getting out of a car to go into my friend’s house. My bag was sitting on the sidewalk and I was so unsteadily drunk that when I leaned over to pick it by the handle, I literally toppled over and took a header straight into the gravelly sidewalk. My arms were restrained by the evil alcohol and could not be convinced to reach out and break my fall. One of my cheek’s (right, left, who knows) took the brunt of the impact. That cheek wore a strawberry gash right under my eye. Under normal circumstances I suspect the pain might have been excruciating but I hardly remember the injury. (Let’s just say a scab decorated my repulsively puffy face for the next few days). Our designated crashing point in my friend’s house for such illustrious occasions was the living room where we would share some shut eye with his loud fucking bird (one of those colorful tropical pieces of feathery shit) that was silenced by draped covers. I woke up during the night with the nastiest and most unsettling urge to Vomit. I had enough presence of mind to run outside where I began heaving all over the front lawn. And heave. And heave.

I threw up forever.

I don’t know how long I stood out there. But I was out there a long time, wretching, heaving some of that nasty Mickey’s which tasted like liquid death the second time around. Each wave of toxic sickness that wrung my stomach out felt like slow death and its putridness propelled another wave of sickness. It was dark, it was the middle of a Wednesday night/Thursday morning, and most good family, church folks were asleep, smiles lining their faces as they dreamed of the next day’s Turkey dinner.

While I hunched over a front lawn throwing up uncontrollably.

There is nothing in the world like vomiting like an unleashed beast in the wild outdoors from about 1 a.m.-4 a.m. Especially on a grass or soil surface. That is an unmatchable feeling…the cool air dancing over your clammy skin. Your strained heart thumps. You can never capture the true essence of such a debacle unless it’s happened to you. The world is quiet. Still. I believe the world is at its most silent and serene at 3 in the morning. Everything and everyone is either asleep or in a deep state of inanimation. Nothing moves. Except you. You and your toxic innards. The only sound to be heard is your gagging and labored breathing as streams of undigested liquid and food stream out your nose and mouth. The night’s isolated darkness mimics your soul. The world, encapsulated, collapses, and your sordid state of affairs is announced shamelessly to all who listen.

That was not the last time I greeted a new day with such dramatics.
At least I had no wife or respectable neighbors to face the next day then.

The Commodore 64, my first love

I’m often a little embarrassed of my generation and its peculiar cultural offerings.
I was born in 1964 and “came of age” in the 1980’s. Now a lot of people use the phrase “coming of age” and I suppose we all have our own pet definitions of what it means. In my book, coming of age is that time in your life when you’re old enough to do things you couldn’t as a teenager while still managing to escape the burdens of adulthood. It is the stage in your life where you still enjoy things lightly without having the weight and responsibilities of adulthood crushing down on your shoulders. So I came of age in the 80’s (according to me) and what a generation it was. We offered a lot, and we offered a lot of shit. We offered some great music, great television, great cinema; but some of the crap we gave the world is painful to ponder. Mork & Mindy, anyone?

In general I focus on the bad. But rather than focusing exclusively on Mork & Mindy or Katrina and the Waves, or even Kajagoogoo, it occurred to me that there is a point of “pride” I can extract from my generational period. Pride, or whatever it is you want to call it. I realized this when someone asked me what my first computer was. Why a Commodore 64, I replied. And it struck me. A C64. My first computer was a C64, it was one of the first shots fired in the home computer wars, back in 1982. I remember researching this purchase. I bought a small paperback consumer guide to computers and my choices were an Atari, an IBM, an Apple, as they were called then, and the Commodore 64. The C64 seemed the best buy for the most bang, if you can call 64Kb of RAM a bang and a fierce 8-bit microprocessor. This puppy was state of the art and I don’t remember where I bought it or how much I spent, but I was excited as hell. My memory fails me, as usual, but I remember the bulky keyboard, the bulky monitor, the 5 1/4″ disk drive and the accompanying boot up disk. Everything about that Commodore was bulky. There was little you could do with this thing out of the box. It functioned as a rudimentary word processor (with the right program, purchased separately) and I used it to compose a few atrocious primitive attempts at fiction which were consequently spit out on an equally atrocious dot-matrix version of a printout. Then I found a computer magazine that actually printed program code which you needed to key into the operating system before executing it in order to enjoy the wonderment of other programmer’s hard work. One of the games I keyed in from the magazine was Tron (which was high computer art back in 1982). My parent’s house was not air conditioned then and the summer heat would cause the C64 to periodically melt down/freeze up which was rather discouraging if I was deeply into a story. There was no “auto back-up” with this shit. The only auto back-up was your good sense, which with that computer, meant you should save your work every 2 minutes.

Not to be outdone by rapidly advancing technology, there was the newfound ability to interact with complete “cyber” strangers, as well. Not sure if that word was born yet, but that is what they were. Then you could power up the modem with all its bells and whistles and get just seriously excited when you heard your phone line connect with the ocean of other phone lines. You found yourself in a textual environment in which you could begin writing to complete strangers on things called “BBS’s” which stood for bulletin board system. Essentially it was a chat line but instead of talking, you just typed to other people who happened to be in your same “room.” BBS’s all had their own names and themes and it was the ultimate outward symbol of socialization for the common reclusive cretin.

Nice to know not much has changed.

I would sit on that damned computer and chat with my friends and complete strangers into the night. It was Facebook, circa 1982, minus the obnoxious and egregious “friending” and definitely minus the “like” thumbs up. The principle was the same. Disconnected communication, the first signs of the dawning of a society which was becoming increasingly faceless and bodiless.

The modems offered concurrently electrifying speeds of 9.6 or 14.4 Kbps, and if you happened to be fortunate enough, you might hop a ride on that race car of dial-up speeds back then; 28.8 or 33.6 Kbps! That shit was fast.

I don’t remember what happened to that C64 but it happily faded into obscurity.
About the same time I had a friend who always got better things than I did.
I got a 1974 Ford Maverick. He got a new Corolla. I got a Commodore 64. He got a new computer called the Macintosh. He showed it off one day while I visited him at his parents. It was a slick, graphics-driven mouse-connected contraption that put my old pixel-limited Commodore to shame. I don’t recall how long I held on to that stuttering pile of silicon and plastic, but I didn’t buy another computer until 1994. By this time, floppy disks had “shrunk” to 3.5 inches and my hard drive was now measured in the hundreds of megabytes. There was a strange new promising data transmission pipeline called “DSL.” And now the BBS’s had been supplanted by something called the “internet” which I attempted to connect to with a kit called “Internet In A Box.”

I miss that Commodore!

“Special Bulletin” – a remnant of our Cold War past **SPOILER**

Did you see it?
If you’re reading this blog, I highly doubt it.

For if you saw it and were able to somewhat comprehend it, you’d have to be at least 37-years-old or so.
Similar in theme to Orson Welles’ War of the Worlds in the respect that it managed to elicit the panicky idiocy of popular American consciousness.

In 1983, it aired during one prime time evening. Disguised in media drag, it posed as a sincere news story. Posing as something it wasn’t, but from what I remember, tons of people fell for it. They mistook it for reality.
It was one of my first realizations that people, as a rule of thumb, are dumb as dirt.
I was 18 or 19. I knew it was a fictional television fantasy.

It was called “Special Bulletin.” A 2-hour movie which masqueraded as a “special bulletin” flashing across the news screen spawning from a pre-modern terrorist act in Charleston, South Carolina. In the archaic language of pre-Muslim terrorism, 1983 represented an entirely different monster from the modern terroristic incarnation.

It’s like this: Special Bulletin aired during the final stages of the Cold War. Remember the Cold War? Russia. The Soviet Union. Big.
We worried about BIG problems, BIG threats, BIG killers.

All things nuclear, everything that was Ronald Reagan…instantaneous death and vaporization beckoned in the form of monstrous atmospheric invaders. They promised to visit in the form of incomprehensibly mammoth vehicles of death.

Special Bulletin was a fictional portrayal of a doomsday situation which unfolded wickedly in a South Carolina port during a routine news story about a dock worker’s strike.
A group of anti-nuclear terrorists storm a docked tugboat. We learn, during the special bulletin, that the the terrorist ringleader is a former (and ostracized) nuclear scientist who suddenly “turned” vehement anti-nuclear activist. He uses his knowledge, his skills, and his expertise, to build a homemade nuclear bomb which is carried aboard the small tugboat. Offering a similar kilotonnage as the bomb we dropped on Hiroshima, the plutonium payload packs a fearsome swath of destruction over the small Southeastern city. The terrorist/scientist has ingeniously designed the bomb buried within layers of insurmountable and mathematically obtuse twists of shielding.

The TV movie plays out like an actual breaking news bulletin with all the attendant spontaneous displays of awkward newsmanship and on-the-spot impromptu reports, observations and journalistic forays into artificial sentimentality. At the time of the movie, our culture was regaining its bearings from Ronald Reagan’s attempted assassination, the Iranian’s seizing of the American embassy (and hostages)…it was a turbulent era and the American populace was overly accustomed to the bloated television news coverage of breaking, real-time news. The melodramatic scenario was easy because the actors in this movie, portraying news anchors and reporters, along with the realistically placed footage of the pseudo archival stock footage, was so realistically woven. Watching this movie, you could easily imagine the group of anti-nuclear terrorists was real. You could believe they planted a multi-kiloton nuclear bomb. And as you sat there, memories of vivid on air disasters fed your imagination and it was easy to get lost in this fictional account. You watched as the government soldiers stormed the tugboat and dispelled the terrorists in a self-righteous burst of destruction before embarking on the gruesomely daunting mission of disarming a nuclear bomb which was so cleverly rigged with layers of failsafe mechanisms seeking to defend against its neutralization.

In “real-time,” we watch this fictional portrayal materialize as a frantic race on the part of bomb technicians to control a rapidly deteriorating situation which is hauntingly narrated off air by a Princeton physicist who attempts to explain the intricate rigging of the nuclear bomb’s protective design. And we witness as the race is lost… The bomb technicians cannot disarm the explosive triggers and muddled in the midst of technical terms, we watch as one attempts to flee the tugboat while the remaining desperate technicians attempt to contain the bomb’s undeniable goal. The last few moments of the technician’s lives are caught on tape as they helplessly clip away with instruments of the trade. The bomb detonates. Bars and tones fill the screen. A studio intercut shows distraught news people. They cut to a newswoman who has been planted across the bay while fires rage in the background on the Charleston horizon.

Awesome stuff.
So real, so great, so dark and apocalyptic. The kind of shit my generation did well.

As I was watching the movie I was reminded how today’s media culture does not volunteer anything remotely as powerful as the exaggerated and fearless expression I witnessed in my younger day.
A movie like Special Bulletin could never have been produced for our modern brand of television.

Of course, the threats are smaller now, aren’t they?
In the early 80s, we worried about megaton bombs.
We worried about Russian nuclear missiles which could incinerate an entire American city in seconds.
We worried about dramatic blasts of massive scientific knowledge raining down on our heads from the evil skies. We worried large, and we expressed large. My era was one of foolhardy distorted amazement.

Now. These kids.
This is the age of small worries.
But many of them.
We don’t worry about bombs that are larger than life; we worry about people. We worry about individuals and small groups. We worry about coordinated human motives and actions

We live in a world where we share a common and singular enemy, person or object.
Our fear is not gone. We still fear..but we fear groups, we fear acts, we fear attitudes.
We fear facelessness.

As such, our cutting edge sense of amusement in the modern era is dampened and dulled. Bland.
We live in a bland era because our enemies are bland. We live in a silent time of moderation and subdued inexpression. Who do we fear? Who can destroy us in one gesture?

I once feared Them.
Now I fear You.

Social Conservatism’s denial of human nature

I have a serious distaste for Social Conservatives.
I always have. Historically, I lump several groups into this category. Religious, military, paramilitary, pest exterminators, the whole slew of them. They seem to derive pleasure from being confined within the suffocating walls of our illusive society and the rules and mores molded over centuries of complacent conformity. Each generation propels this mindset of right and wrong and shapes the present world with these indefinable (but very definable) social constructs which are treated as deified decrees.
Even Social Conservatives who lack religious fervor seem deeply buried in dogmatic masturbation. They entertain a narrow-minded focus which is ultimately ethnocentric, “Homocentric,” and “eracentric. The Social Conservative, so smugly set in his ways and joyously reveling in his idealogical fetishes. I suspect it’s their intellectual smugness that has always grated on my nerves.

Surfreading around much of the HBD/PUA/mansphere (it all chillingly overlaps), I usually experience a subdued distaste for many of the opinions and personalities without really bothering to examine why I experience such a reaction. It wasn’t until recently that discussions began floating around in the wake of the release of Sex At Dawn that many of the commenters in this section of the blogosphere felt incited to espouse their Social Conservatism. It was during one such reading period that I was struck by the realization of why I find these folks annoying: many of them are essentially Social Conservatives, albeit with a horrifyingly scientific or sexual bent.

Evolutionary concepts which draw oodles of righteous ire are egalitarianism, polyamory and jealousy.

The polarized schools of thought are signified. on one side, by those who believe egalitarianism and polyamory are natural, evolutionary-endowed states of biological and cultural existence. The opposing school argues that evolutionary evidence demonstrates humans are inherently hierarchical and “selfish.” Obviously, the latter is the mindset lusted over by the Social Conservative crowd. In a fashion resoundingly typical of the Social Conservative, modern (Agricultural) motifs and civilized behaviors are retroactively drawn over the raw nature of humanity and are thus declared gospel. Citizen Renegade enunciates this eracentric contrivance of instinctual human behavior that seeks to affirm itself by imprinting modern human behavior on the entirety of the human animal’s history, a creature, which incidentally, presents a genetic legacy molded over a prehistory that overshadows modernity as much as a hundredfold.

How, in a polyamorous society, are you going to arrange things so that women dispense their pussy equitably among high and low status men? As noted by the commenter, this would require some major group selection modulated behavior to be workable; a woman would fuck for the survival of the tribe, instead of the survival of her offspring. That would be awfully magnanimous of her! It’s like arranging a society where men are happy to boff fat, old and ugly chicks with equal attention to romantic detail that they give the hot young babes.

If anything, a culturally endorsed polyamorous dating market that virtually guaranteed a steady provider payout for disloyal, promiscuous women and their bastard spawn would help resolve the female tension for male commitment and good male genes in favor of the latter. Betas would be sexually shunned even more than they are now. LJBFing and undignified platonic beta orbiting would reach epic proportions. This blog would be classified as treason against the state and an incitement to rebellion and be shut down.

A happy hippie free love egalitarian commune it would not be. Widespread polyamorous practice where childrearing is done by the village and all men, uncertain of paternity, contribute resources to the well-being of the single moms and their unholy bastard squirtage, will not convince women to equally distribute their sexual favors among the men. Just the opposite; it would liberate women to single-mindedly pursue the few alphas in their purview, knowing full well that a beta blood-latticed safety net exists to protect them from destitution. In other words, socially-sanctioned and state-supported polyamory lets women have their cake and eat it, too. The only trade-off is that they will have to share scarce high value lovers with other women. Yet as any tour of a college campus will demonstrate, most women in their prime would prefer to share an alpha stud than extract commitment from a beta schlub. Until the wall looms, that is. Heh.

Now some of the things he brings up are inarguable, within the context of modern society.

Citizen Renegade is guilty of that special brand of closed-minded Socially Conservative talking points that I find espoused in these parts.

Witness the value-driven concepts and words in this excerpt. Concepts which are righteous within the 21st century context, but which, when templated over prehistoric man, simply wear the disingenuous and self-congratulatory charade of the typical repressed Social Conservative:

“high and low status men”: This is a tremendously value-driven concept of modernity. “Status” implies a standardized and memorialized social structure which simply is not likely to exist in a nomadic society which chases abundance of food and tolerance of environment. The concept of status is a fixed element existent only in an immutable and grounded society. When humans stick around long enough, their social nature adjusts, and just as a tree releases seeds to neighboring soil, so do humans imbue their environment with the seeds of their fixed nature. Status insinuates some sort of codified social construct; I suspect prehistoric man was quite a bit less constrained by his Priest or Emily Postian social niceties. Status was not necessary since social glue had nothing to adhere to.

“a woman would fuck for the survival of the tribe, instead of the survival of her offspring. That would be awfully magnanimous of her!” Another dose of bumbling trickery which the modern Social Conservative is fond of. The embellishment of rudimentary instincts with descriptors best suited for modern behavior. Magnanimous? Once again, I believe the 21st Century fixation (especially as exemplified by the presence of the PUA community) with sex, and all manners of attaining it, was simply not a predominant fixture of the prehistoric mentality. Social niceties, which I abhor, are flowery adornments we cloak our primal instincts with in order to mold them around our modern social drive to co-exist peaceably. In a permanent state of localized existence, peaceful cooperation (egalitarianism!!!!) is a prized invention. Nomadic hunter-gatherers would have had “bigger things to worry about” than hoisting sexual union as a declaration of egotistical supremacy. They weren’t big on “Field Reports!”

“If anything, a culturally endorsed polyamorous dating market that virtually guaranteed a steady provider payout for disloyal, promiscuous women and their bastard spawn would help resolve the female tension for male commitment and good male genes in favor of the latter. Betas would be sexually shunned even more than they are now.” Ha, say what? This is one of the more egregious examples of overlaying today’s dystopian mores over prehistoric social culture. An assertion of one school of thought is that prehistoric human society was “polyamorous.” This is merely a perspective of ancient history as it functioned then. Shaped, limited and freed by the nature of nomadic society, polyamory functions well and is the ideal vehicle by which evolution can express itself (with the ostensible aim to procreate). Only in the modern agricultural world which requires immutable relations and confined pairings in order to function optimally (and give Social Conservatives something to fixate on), is polyamory suddenly cast as a disruptive and unnatural state of affairs. And thus, the Social Conservative cites it as contrary to human nature.

An interesting note to this passage is the concept of “Alpha” and “Beta” males, a couple of terms which are ubiquitous in discussions batted about in the PUA/HBD communities.
I’m convinced that the Alpha and Beta designations, as they tend to be over-intellectualized in this arena, are unrealistic and inaccurate labels pinned on primitive behavior and which, for all intents and purposes, did not exist as we comprehend them now in prehistoric society. Alpha as defined today is largely behavioral; an intrinsic trait of the psyche. But the true nature of Alpha is physical. It is violence and might and strength. I don’t believe Alpha men competed with Beta men for prehistoric females to the degree glamorized in today’s appraisal. If the Alpha-Beta battle for females were factual, it would infer that prehistoric man was emotionally attached to prehistoric woman. Women of breeding age, considering the fact prehistoric man was not confined by social and legal restraints, were likely bountiful. Hardly a scarce resource. There was no reason for male Alpha expression in order to mate. Darwinism is not a tool of improvement or progress; it is a tool of adaptation. I highly doubt that within this “adaptation model,” humans were inherently designed to breed “high.” This is merely a value description. Perhaps natural instinct is to solely breed; perhaps, breeding “better” is not a hard-wired drive. As such, Alpha would be meaningless in the context of breeding. The nomadic nature of hunter-gatherers brought drove them regions where resources were plentiful. When insects and other distasteful (to our palates) are included, it’s most likely prehistoric man rarely found himself in situations where food or women were scarce. Scarcity is the motivator for a delineation of the Alpha/Beta polarity.

“Widespread polyamorous practice where childrearing is done by the village and all men, uncertain of paternity, contribute resources to the well-being of the single moms and their unholy bastard squirtage, will not convince women to equally distribute their sexual favors among the men.” If ever there was a term which so perfectly encapsulated Biblically acculturated designations of worth and non-worth, it is “bastard.” The notion of fixed and inflexible parental involvement strikes me as a gratuitous absorption with a society’s sense of inflated Christian mission. Look at this clearly. In a fixed, post-agricultural society where property is clearly demarcated and owned, possessions reign supreme. Possessions transcend all levels of existence. Land, food, tools…children. With such religious and institutionally-motivated society, the welfare of children is structured around layers of familial bonds and contracts. Did prehistoric man even have a concept of aunt or father-in-law? I highly doubt it. In such a fluid and transient existence, the drive to care for children existed, but it was not blueprinted within the artificial template of primary genetic relations. Why is it so difficult to swallow the fact that communal organization in such an “unstructured” environment was the optimal method of conducting society?

Doesn’t the phrase “single mom” necessarily denote an “institution?” In this case, marriage? Marriage, the most sanctimonious of civilized institutions and hence, the most artificial, designed to reinforce the hierarchical needs of unlayered man?

The social conservatives cite the incongruous and refined habits of the modern human as the ideal state of existence in order to glamorize his uncharacteristically confined prison that is our modern world. In order for man to deny his primitive nature (a very real need if he wishes to partake in this world), he needs to erect impermeable boundaries with which to contain himself.

Generalizations about a single, 45-year-old man


Another installment of the Generalization Chronicles


Here are some generalizations about single, 45-year-old men.


Something is direly wrong with him.
Spiritually, emotionally, financially, physically, mentally…any which way the feminized mass media propaganda machine can twist the truth to meet its own end.


He is no longer porcelain pretty boy pure and there can be a slightly- to harshly weathered tone to his physical existence.
Gray is usually potruding in light to heavy streams of betrayal.


He dresses in that in-between world of fashion which is too self-conscious and good-sensed to be overly youthful, but timid and bashful enough to avoid the trappings of senior bland inconspicuousness.


Well-established in his career, he is not prone to rash decisions or choices. Yet, he fights the constraints and strictures of antiquated society. He attempts to break the barriers down but at the end of the day, he comes home to drooping eyes and quivering facial creases.


He likes young girls, preferably in the 19-22 year-old range.
But he does not have the looks, money, fame or notoriety to spontaneously bang such women and he will essentially default to the “old creepy man” perception in their prized eyes.


Painfully, sadly, oppressively, he realizes the countdown has begun.
That 45 is the “new starting line” to the hazy incomprehensibility that is mortality.


Socially and sexually desperate.


The initial tinges of grayness and seniority. Weathered but in a desperately youthful manner.
Fully immersed in mid-life crisis and every move, gesture, word, utterance, motive, is thus explained as an extension of this.


Perceived desperation is disguised playfully as a pre-ordained weakness.
He cannot win for the eyes of society bemoan his status.
Yet, he is in a good position for he still garners the raw sexuality of his younger days but channeled and directed in a piercing arrow of temperance and caution.


Perhaps desperate to reclaim youthful vigor but jaded enough to know this was never possible, even when he was young. At 45, he tries to be younger than he was when he was…young.