It’s a gentleman’s noon here in Music City, and I’m still in my uniform of choice - a free Lagunitas hoodie and checkered flannel pajama pants with a tear down the entire length of the ass.
One of my life’s great victories is being able to wear my uniform of choice during events of supposed consequence - management calls, etc - looking like the epitome of disheveled asshole while ostensibly “crushing the game.” But the real reason I’m still in my uniform of choice is because I’m a broken old man.
Five years ago, say, a 48 hour trip to Denver involving drinking and shenanigans and crashing wherever would’ve been just dandy, but there’s something to be said about embracing one’s inevitable march towards dotage. Nowadays, impromptu trips require midnight bedtimes and hotels with functional gyms, and while it pains me to wave goodbye to the part of myself that vaguely resembles rock and roll excess, I’m grateful to be back in my comfy little house, typing away to the metronomic ticking of an antique clock.
Today, I think I’ll re-read The Graveyard Book while sitting in the sun, young at heart but age-appropriate in degeneracy.