2005-01-11 - 10:17 a.m.

Tunes to rant by: Arcade Fire, Funeral.

It's a dirty fucking trade-off if you ask me. Like everything else in this world, knowledge comes at the expense of aging.

If we want to grow more comfortable in our own skin and in turn lead a healthier, happier life, then we have to become completely cogniscient of our faults. Which in my case includes the intial stages of male pattern baldness. Damn Dale gene.

Oh don't get me wrong ladies. I'm still hot to trot.

No longer swimming upstream, I'm growing more and more content in the body and mind that I've been afforded.

Last night the four roomies met at good ole Quinitin's to try and taste that old Monday night magic, the kind that ran through our veins like lighting long before we knew the true meaning of 9 to 5 and full medical/dental.

As it is, there were 7 instances througout the night that made me cogniscient of my own aging.

1) Preparing for the night out used to mean a shower, some serious primping in front of the mirror trying to make peroxide tipped hair stand at just the right angle, interspersing swiggs of beer while debating on which sweet button-up looked better with the shoes I was wearing. It meant combatting 2 or 3 overwhelming waves of anxiety with more stiff alcohol before finally resolving to get in the car and go around 10pm.

Now preparing consits of throwing a hat on, still sporting the days work clothes, and the only pre-shots I'm doing usually come from a Febreeze container. It's getting to the bar around 8pm so that we can get a booth and rest our weary heads while the younger crowd works the room over and over, following the same comfortable paths we wore into the floor a few years ago.

2) It's Blue Moons or Red Stripes at the pace of one every half hour or so. It used to be whiskey and gin and vodka and whiskey and shots and whiskey and coke as fast as possible. A young man grabbing his insecurities by the scruff of the nexk and drowning them like a rabid dog, holding my own head under water until the shaking stopped and there was nothing but calm. Now I sit at our table and watch the same guy walk through the door Eleventy Billion times. His hair is the same, his shirt is the same (nice popped collar bro), and he does that same point thingy while the bouncer checks his ID, the one where you're like, "Yo guys, yeah I can't believe it either, I'm here. I'll be right over there to man-hug you in just a sec, but first let me pose for the fine-ass ladies in the house."

3) Instead of selecting a seat that affords me a view of the entire bar, letting drunken eyes wonder over the soft curves of faces I think are beautiful, regardless of the ugly insides they seek to disguise, I'm much happier selecting the corner seat that faces the window. Last night I spent 90% of the evening contemplating the Chocalate Lab tied to the bench outside. He was much more intersting to me than the 100 or so midriff's and dazzling belly button rings. The lip gloss is smeared on pretty stongly but it doesn't sweeten the words one single bit.

4) Enlightment can be found in the strangest of places. Like the shitter. Forcing my way through the crowd, trying my best to make room for the poor waitresses, trays held inconceivably high as they squirm through the Abercrombie log jam, it takes a good minute to walk 30 feet to the mens room. Once there, I watch young boys on cell phones pinball off the walls while they try to seal the deal, swearing they can drive, their dicks doing their negotiating for them. But the true enlightment came after a quick piss. Of the 5 or 6 guys that come and go, I'm the old man who takes his time to wash his hands, lathering the hand soap, and drying them before returning to the bar.

5) The music blares from the jukebox and I get excited when The Who or The Black Crows, or something old and familiar comes on. I'm straining my ears to hear steel guitar over the top of digital cell phone rings. I'm pleading with the jukebox to give me one more classic gem before the next Snoop Dogg or 311 song comes on. And as I listen to Johnny Football Hero croon the chorus to every Weezer song, I say a silent prayer for Rivers. I imagine him looking down upon the bar as Pinkerton plays from cover to cover and muttering with a tear in his eye (just like that girl in white from the first Matrix movie) "Not like this, not like this."

6) On the way out, it's not even midnight yet and we're struggling to keep our eyelids open. The streets alot blurrier than I remember. For a split second I can't even tell you where I parked my car. And that's not even the beers. That's just plain ole forgetfulness. Car located, we get excited over 99cent value meals and Napolean Dynamite instead of afterbars and potential 3am booty calls. I don't even think I'd wake up if the phone rang at 3am. I used to gather my courage and make some drunk dial in the hopes of scorng 30 minutes of pleasure, now I gather my courage and hope I can get 30 more minutes of sleep before the alarm breaks the sweet sweet silence of sleep.

7) Mornings used to happen whenever I finally decided to drag myself from my bed to the couch. A morning routine after a night of at the bar would consist of watching I Love the 80's from decade to decade, drinking an ice cold Coke, and contemplating whether or not I could make it on time to my 3pm. Now the morning is signaled with a stabbing pain in the back of my brain, as 4 beers gather for a final assault on my stomach, almost draining my will to exist. But I fall out of bed, fling the alarm against the wall and pray that I don't vomit in the shower. 4 beers. Fifths of whiskey a few years ago. Now it's 4 beers.

And ya know what's really fucked up?

It feels just fine.

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