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South Laguna Beach
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A brief update. The word on the street is that I have been extraordinarily busy at the orifice in recent months. The last six weeks of the year are when the resolve of many professional chaps seems to slacken. For me, it is time to gird one's Tweed suit and sally forth with renewed determination. Nose to the grindstone, and all that. It is always best to finish strong.
As you know, I loathe the holiday season with a loathing of white-hot fervidness. The lumpen holiday tunes. Displays of naked capitalist-consumerism. The spectacle of earnest females busily engaged in buying up shitty little baubles. And memories, for me, of big family dinners beset with squabbling, drama, argument, drama, gossip, and more drama. I simply never felt
it, a condition extending to certain other areas of life of which I am sure my family from my earliest years were quite aware. Modern Americans only seem to come together if it involves monetary exchange, and even then there really is very little there. It almost moves me to violence. Modern life presents the civilised man not with disappointment, as John Cheever famously said, but with
insult.
I work hard, true, but, as you may have heard, I do like to have fun on a regular basis. And this usually involves a pretty filly or two. My recent reports on the topic have been meagre, I admit; I aim to remedy this shortly. I will tell you one thing, though. I regularly patrol the champagne-pits of the California show-coast where I encounter hordes of seriously attractive, single, childless women in their 30s-40s trolling for rich beta-bait. The number of such females is quite startling. Easy pickings for some of us--but cause for serious despair for others, including the foolish females themselves. I am taking--and
have taken--full advantage of the sexual availability of modern females. But there lingers at the back of my mind--I do not deny it--an idea that something better once prevailed.
If it is true the present consortium is breaking up and circumstances have not yet progressed to the point where men can finally experience life as it is meant to be experienced--in full blood and glory--then there are worse places to be than poolside with a cocktail in one hand and a hottie in the other.
Sent from my iPhone
"That long, long path over the moors and into the forest, who has trodden it? Man, a human being, the first one who came here. There was no path before him. Later a few animals followed the faint tracks over the heaths and moors and made them clearer, and still later a few Lapps began to nose out the path and to use it when they were going from one mountain to another to see to their reindeer. This is how the path through the great common, the no-man’s-land owned by no one, came into being. 
