One day you wake up a middle-aged dork and everything you do is soft. Somewhere along the way whatever edge you thought you had has obviously dulled.

This is how I feel on day 18 of my dry January. For measure, I cut out sweets and fried food as well. I feel squishy. Tame. This is what low testosterone feels like. I’ve never tested but this must be the feeling.

I’m certain that a little whisky would be like a leather strap to a butter knife. Throw in some chicken wings and it’s a grind stone for an axe. I’d be on edge, rowdy, belligerent. I would feel like a million bucks.

Old men don’t push each other through walls. They don’t scream in the face of strangers. They don’t throw bottles at moving trains. They don’t fuck in public places in broad daylight. They aren’t agents of chaos for the sake of chaos. Except, I’m certain I’m wrong. There are men like this, their lives are horrible though. No stable relationships, jobs, money, health, wrecking balls are rarely kept polished.

So this was how I felt when I had to put my phone down and stop writing. I wasn’t sure where this topic was even going to take me, but I was writing it in my car, and then I went to overindulge in Korean BBQ before going to an event in Baltimore called “Elvis’ Birthday Fight Club”.

It’s funny how just going to something wild, rejuvenates the darker side of my personality. I won’t give away what Elvis’ Birthday Fight Club is, it wouldn’t be fair to anyone who would want to go for the first time. It was my first time, and their 14th annual, so the audience was surprisingly familiar with what was going to take place.

Quaaludes are a big theme of the show, as are comedy, Elvis, toilets, burlesque dancers, perfectly orchestrated fights, nudity in general, drag queens, music, puns and other awful jokes, and crowd participation and enthusiasm.

Laughs, violence, sex, pleasure, absurdity. I felt a million times better when the show let out.

🔪 🪓 🔪