In 22 days I’ll be 48 years old. For a physically healthy and uncomfortably sentient guy like me that’s only halfway there, but I’m unsure if living another 40+ years is within my scope of possibilities; if I didn’t give zero fucks about anything I’d be scared. But hey, I am a proponent of living within the confined invisible walls of the moment, so I remain calm as I head out to the U.S. Open as a non-credentialed guest of a V.I.S. (sponsor). How do I get myself into these gigs? It’s because I’m pretty, right? #officialarmcandy.
I began this morning reading a nice little puff piece from Brain Pickings about Tolstoy’s quest to find meaning in a meaningless world. This as I awoke from a dream involving the Georgetown loft from St. Elmo’s Fire with the cool wall mural and long, long Factory-like couch wrapped in brown paper. “Alec’s becoming a republican and he wants to get married!” #OMG. Psyching myself up for the Soho experience but more on that later. Tolstoy did the walk of shame down the alleys of science, religion and philosophy for guidance when his instincts left him disillusioned. Here I’ll quote Leo from his autobiography a passage that succinctly cuts me to my own core: “One can only live while one is intoxicated with life; as soon as one is sober it is impossible not to see that it is all a mere fraud and a stupid fraud!” The metaphor here is one that Auntie Mame keeps yelling at me as I strut down 7Th Avenue with my hair in a flip: LIVE, LIVE, LIVE! Religion and science are sobering reminders that life really is boring and meaningless unless one finds one’s own meaning within one’s own instincts. After the dance with practicality Leo eventually returned to his basic constitutions and looked back inward to realize he shouldn’t be taking it all so fucking seriously. I tweeted this link and almost immediately got a re-tweet from Leo himself.
Then the story of the former Playboy model who snap-chatted a photo of a naked 70 year old woman in a gym locker room with a cute little OMG millennial-esque catchphrase. Thank God (Steve Jobs) for immediate gratification via photographic visualization. Mister Jobs is looking (up) from wherever he may be getting the ultimate tan and still laughing like it was all really, really worth it. Otherwise no millennial snowflake would even know the meaning of that useless little thing called tact. It’s my right! Now, after losing her gym membership and job as a radio personality (Playboy models on the radio?) there’s the possibility of jail time for the former Playboy model if the 70 year old naked lady chooses to cooperate with the cops and press charges. “Dissemination of private images,” is the misdemeanor comeuppance, which in L.A. is punishable by six months in jail. He-He. I hope that this 70 year old naked lady is not a turn-the-cheek type. For once I hope this lady is not a decent human being, an adult who means no harm to even those who have harmed her, the forgiving type. No, for once I hope that this woman actually presses charges against the former Playboy model and she actually does jail time. I hope she’s an angry old bitch who relishes in all forms of revenge. Why? Sending a message to the virtually-living millennial douches that litter the cafes of idle jobless time? No, because who cares? So what? Hashtag #shehaditcoming. I just want to see a Paris Hilton perp-walk as this former Playboy model gets taken to jail to serve about six hours of the six month sentence (prison overcrowding in L.A.) as TMZ streams her book deal live. Pray for the former Playboy model. She’s really been through it. It is pure vengeance on my part because I have such a visceral impatience with millennials and their acceptable stupidity in society. But, who raised all these little pussies? Yeah, my generation of zero-fucks-given. I has to be somebody’s fault. But whose?
So I have threatened before to delete my twitter but as of today it’s still up with dwindling followers. #whatever. I posted my 7,000th IG pic this morning, one of myself and my dog Nash riding along Ft Lauderdale beach in a yellow convertible, living in the moment. The symbolism here is uncanny. Within a few months of this photo being taken Nash would die of Cancer and I’d shed more tears in seven days than I have in 47 years. Moral of story: only take pics of things you want to see, not unsee.
Off to lunch with Billie Jean King. I’ll have the phish (swedish).