A snapshot of a 1996 desert Alpha.


It was because of my son’s Lit project that I found this.


I didn’t find the intended book (which I’m sure is tucked away in this horrendous chaotic mess called an apartment), but I found a bunch of old photographs which consisted mostly of a Vegas trip I made with 3 guys from work in August, 1996.


I hated Vegas, even as a partying, 31-year-old guy, and I still hate it, as a frightfully-near-50 middle-aged guy who would just as soon never leave this disorder that passes as home.


Las Vegas, as I’ve railed about previously, is the worst city in the world. It is garbage. It is a smoldering, smelly, shitty, humid, fuming, refuse pile. It is home to superficial dreams and wayward amusements that contribute absolutely nothing to mankind other than scented swarms of hair-product-wearing douche-bags and prancing, painted whores. It is where people go to forget they have a job to do on this planet, namely, leading an exemplary, respectable life.


Whereas simplicity and understatement are honorable human virtues, Vegas is excess, waste, soulless death. That teeming puddle of glittery vomit can sink into the guts of the eternal desert floor for all I care.


It was my first time on a plane. I feared flying with all my timorous heart.


And I still do.


I lived in Hollywood. I got loaded before they picked me up for the morning flight, but even then, I was still a nervous wreck for the 50 minutes in the air between Los Angeles and the desert harlot. On our flight back, I got loaded again, and a nanny, who was watching over 2 unruly kids in the row behind us, vomited loudly and sourly into her puke bag just before we landed. It stunk to high heaven. I’ve never smelled anything so awful. I held my breath for the last 10 minutes of descent. At least it took my mind off the plane ride.


There were 4 of us on this trip.


In the photo, one of them, “M,” the organizer of this outing, was behind the camera. Pictured in the middle is a much younger, sprier Me. The other two fellows were, “E,” on my right. He was from South America and into New Age and holistic bullshit. He was a vegetarian and I have no idea why he wanted to go to Vegas. He didn’t even drink.


The other dude, the Black one, “A,” took himself too seriously and reckoned himself a Casanova Moor. He was nothing of the sort. He was withdrawn, bitter, divorced, resentful, defensive, paranoid, and consumed with building the ultimate upper body. Apparently, this was at the expense of his lower body for he never wore shorts, even in Vegas in August when it was over 105 degrees. The dude should have gotten laid a lot, but frankly, he was a kinda weird, socially inept clod who was only capable of stimulating women on a visual level. Once he opened his mouth, the shit was over. He was a case study in the well-known Player’s Handbook chapter dealing with male looks and physique and how they will only get you in the door. Once there, you need to shine from within or you’ll get tossed right back out the door. That was “A’s” predicament. His timidity was inversely proportional to the size of his upper chest.


But back then, I had no clue how things “work.” I resented the superficial female attention he received and failed to consider that he never maintained the attention for long, while skinny, twerp, short-ass me got laid more than he did.


I was Alpha as fuck!

Vegas, 1996. Your truly, in the middle.
Vegas, 1996. Yours truly, in the middle.