Saturday, July 13, 2013


Too cool to be drawn in by the swirls of conversation around me, I mostly tune out the word eddies at the bar and try to act like I'm not naive. Spencer is drunk and talking about a crush. Malibu and Shandi are discussing douchetards. After a week of wide-awake bad dreams and not enough sleep I am close to collapse. But being world-wise and wired takes precedent.

Behind me, hands close around my ribs. My ninja senses tell me it's a friendly poke; I turn around and say hello to Topher, the Paragraph Factory's cool tech dude and my comrade-in-arms during the war against the machines. He's with his equally hep wife, Tiphany. We start talking about murder and mayhem, life and love, nail polish and nihilism. The last two are especially important and topical; Tiphany has contributed to the tackle box of polish, and my belief that life has become senseless has made it easier to accept being Gay Dad to the beautiful women populating my world.

"You're not Gay Dad," Tiphany says, fixing me with a look that tears through the facade. Perhaps I've become non-threatening to women, she says, but this too shall pass, and it won't be long before I'm back to being a badass playa.

I think about the sign Malibu saw on her last trip home, the one in the photograph up top — BEEN THERE ROCKED THAT — and I realize that no matter how much I think I want to rock and romp in a new era, there is no reason to seek anything more than the finest things I've already enjoyed. It makes no sense to gild refined gold.

Once again, Cobain is right: I've seen it all / I was here firstI have already given away what was left of me. No flinching. No blame.

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