Age Is a State of Mind

Originally written January 2005:

Lately, as I quickly approach my quarter-century milestone, I've been spending a considerable amount of time thinking about my past, and how it's led me to where I am in the present. I have never been a believer in Fate--that our destinies were ordained the moment we came into existence--but I do believe that events in our lives happen for a reason, that they come about as a result of circumstances that exist due to the decisions that we make, or the situations that we put ourselves in.

Some of the events that have transpired during the course of the last twenty-five years have left an indelible impression on the face of the civilized world, and also on me. I have also witnessed many things that have not had the same impact on the world-at-large, but have had a great influence on the way I see the world.
I can only begin to imagine, with the scope and significance of the events that I have had the privilege to be a part of during the last quarter-century, what greater and more wondrous things the next 25 years will hold, and what incredible and interesting people I will have the fortune to cross paths with.

For those of you that read this, I thank you for the honor that you have bestowed upon me, to have taken in and thus become a part of these words that I have written here.

I hope that your lives will be just as incredible and fulfilling as I know mine will be.

Giving Thanks (Or, I'm Glad She Didn't Give Me Gonorrhea)

Most people I know (including myself) love to bitch about everything. Nothing satisfies us; there is always that one thing, one detail, one aspect, however minute or inconsequential, which opens the door for a day's worth of whining and complaining.

On this day of giving thanks, I woke up to a slight hangover (you know, the kind that merely feels like a head cold) and realized something. I lay awake in bed, staring up at the ceiling, and did not, as I have done more than a few times, contemplate on why I was waking alone. This time, my stare at the ceiling was more significant. I can't tell you why or how this thought entered my mind, but I can tell you that I am extremely thankful for it.

I am thankful that it doesn't burn when I pee.

I am thankful that I don't have any unexplained marks, bruises, sores, lesions, tire tracks, or any one of several unwanted tenants on my dick (or on, what I can call the Buckhead Village of my genitalia, my balls). I am thankful that those commercials for Valtrex ("the only once-a-day prescription medication proven to suppress future genital herpes outbreaks") aren't speaking to me. I am especially thankful that I could have contracted something on more than a few occasions, and didn't (to include having fucked, several times, the rather attractive human equivalent of a public commode--everyone's used it, and it's never anyone you know*).

So today, while you sit around the table, chewing on bits of dry, over-cooked turkey, chew on this instead: a nice pink may mean a whole lot more than rare.

*First clue is when she has three kids--by three different guys. Second clue is when she smells like she's on her period--all the time.

Night at the Dark Horse

Women, women, everywhere, and not a one to keep...

This particular night, myself and a few friends decide to partake in the hospitality of the Dark Horse Tavern. We relocate from another bar down the street, in the Virginia-Highlands district of Atlanta. Thanks to the light rain falling outside, we are greeted by a mass of bodies just inside the door when we walk in.

As usual, the predators, male and female alike, immediately turn to scope out the new arrivals. Some are more subtle about it than others; I make eye contact with two girls at the corner of the bar nearest the door, and smile at one. She breaks eye contact, slides her gaze down my body, then back up before smiling back. Unfortunately for her, a smile is all that she'll get from me tonight. Miss Bug Eyes does not get the coveted Stamp of Approval, and so I move past, to fetch a beer at the bar. She is but a little fish, and I have just stumbled onto a freshly-stocked pond.

Tonight appears to be a good night at the Horse. The all-important Ratio smiles upon our hunting party. Not surprisingly, there are plenty of beautiful women scattered about. My vision blurs from the onslaught of tight sweaters, tighter jeans, and long, blond hair. (Okay, to be fair, there are plenty of beautiful brunettes, too, but blondes stand out better in a darkly-lit bar.) From my vantage, I scan the crowd for the rally point: somewhere that will afford the best exposure all around. I grab my customary Bass and wait for the others to load up. When I see that we all are properly equipped, we move out and set up shop in between what looks like a bachelorette party and a living Barbie Doll convention. Within minutes, we conduct reconnaissance on both fronts, and then commence with our assault. The bachlorettes' defenses, already weakened by their prolonged drinking, crumble first. Forcing an opening, we rush in and begin to engage them in conversation, flinging game everywhere. Our cause is just and our mission is clear. Our best lines are wasted not. We move with a boldness and confidence that would make fathers proud and mothers blush. 

Few things speak more volumes on the dating attitudes of people than hearing about why they break up. I applaud those with valid reasons, reasons which were derived from a fundamental problem in a relationship which prevented it from developing further. Others show just how psychotic they are, or overly dramatic, or a million other things, ad nauseam.

More often than not, you start hearing what can only be described as the stupidest shit in the world.

"I just didn't like the way he drank beer from the bottle," relates Hollie, 26. (She introduces herself by spelling out her name, and insists that I get it right, i-e, not y.) "He would wrap his lips around the mouth of the bottle, and it always made this pop sound when he took the bottle away from his mouth. It got really annoying."

"How long were you guys together?" I ask this, eyebrows raised in faux-prise.

"Five months." She takes a swig from her Michelob Ultra. Funny, she does the same thing with her bottle that she finds so annoying.

"That's it? Come on," I gesticulate wildly, dismissing her with a wave of my hand. I give her a crooked smile, which is returned with a mischievous grin. "There's gotta be some other reason why you dumped this guy after five months!" I continue to press the attack, digging to see how high her baggage quotient is.

"Nope. I guess you can say that I have pretty high standards." Again, she takes a drink. Pop.

Ha, ha, you stupid bitch, I laugh, as we continue to converse, now about why more women (and of course, herself in particular) need breast augmentation. I know better than to allow her to keep talking about her exes, and so deftly change gears so as not to stall out. I begin to present a strong case about why her wonderful chest is fine just the way it is. There are two things that I know about her at this point, other than her name. The first thing is that she is superficial as hell. 

The second is that she has an incredible body.

Game on.