Nonculture

Or whatever my job title is.  I don’t even know what it is, because I don’t give a fuck what it is, to be honest.  It doesn’t matter unless there is a “manager’ of some kind in front of it.  I’m a year older and still in the trenches and am not getting glitter on my face tonight.  So, some stripper isn’t singing me Happy Birthday Mr. fucking President, which I guess is good, especially since being the real president isn’t even good these days.

Don’t even know what to say about this birthday.  It’s a weird one, a big number.  I think my father was that age when I began to remember things.  So, is it fitting that I’ve developed a drinking problem that helps me forget things at this age since I have no children at this age?  Can you even follow that line of reasoning?

My girlfriend asked me if I’d have a problem turning this age and I told her in no uncertain terms, hell no.  Well, I’m thinking now that maybe I do.  But I’m not sure if they are issues carried over from the year or if they have to do with the turning of, basically, kind of old.  Old enough where even I feel like creepy old guy when I go downtown drinking and can’t help but look at the 18 year olds dressed in those short short skirts with practically nothing else on.  Let’s be honest; they’re hot as hell and legal, or they wouldn’t be down there in the first place, and maybe one in a hundred could be into older guys.  So maybe you’ve still got a chance, creepy old ogling guys.  Just stop tucking your polo shirts into your hiked up khakis and/or flashing big belt buckles.  It doesn’t work like it did in 1980, hotshot.

 Anyway, all this talk about 18 year olds and strippers is making me want to hit Dancers Royale, the closest strip club.  Except Dancers Royale is also the shittiest strip club on the planet.  Once we took a cab there drunk from downtown, walked in, ordered a drink, saw the girls and walked out.  The cabbie had barely left the parking lot.  Looking at cigarette burned skanks with cellulite can kill your mood pretty quick.

But, by my logic, I could still pull some hot young tail if I played the odds.  I’m going to have to order some Viagra as a present to myself, and as a reminder not to give up hope.  So, happy birthday to me, Mr. Old Ogling Computer Guy!