Slouching into Oblivion

Dear Jim, The dating pool here has become a very small little muddy puddle. I find an endless frigging line of men that just want to sleep with me or want me to pay for everything or lend them money. The men don’t just sleep around with all the women in town but sometimes sleep with other men, too. When you get to the point you are relieved that he is just cheating on you with other women and not with other men, maybe it’s time to stop. Marie Dear Marie, Don’t stop. And remember - 99% of the men you meet on Tinder or in bars are losers, drunks, perverts, and/or broke. I can help you. Here are a series of questions you should ask before letting a guy bone you. Don’t beat around the bush (no pun intended) asking open ended questions like,“Do you drink?” Of course he fucking drinks. You want to know how much he drinks. You want to know the magnitude of a guy’s dysfunction. As a long time drunk and sex addict (sez my ex), I know the questions a guy doesn’t want to answer u

There is not much to be learned on the cocktail circuit these days unless you have a special interest in abnormal psychology, vacuous chatter, or alcoholism (other than your own). It also helps to have a good recollection for names of those who mean nothing to you and never will. “Hi, Jim. Welcome!” effused the hostess whose name I couldn’t remember and didn’t try. “Is this your new girlfriend,” she asked, not because she was interested but because the pause became uncomfortable when I didn’t introduce her. The truth was I couldn’t remember my girlfriend’s name. I mean I recognized her face but in that propitious moment I couldn’t put a name to it. It might have been the pre-party whiskey. “No,” I replied. “This is a hooker I see regularly whose name I don’t remember.” “Fuck you, Jim, you drunk bastard!” my girl snarled as she gave me quick punch to the kidney doubling me over. “Don’t pay attention to him,” she said politely. “He’s a drunk and a sex addict. I only stay wi

Happiness. I’ve read about it, thought about it, written a book about it, and lectured on it. The only thing I haven’t done with happiness is actually feel it. Which is embarrassing to say just 13 days before my 70th birthday. I could be glib about this milestone, as so many are, and recite some self-serving bullshit like, “You are only as old as you feel.” No. You are as old you are, no more, no less. The question is how much have you learned in the years you won’t get back.  What have you learned that you can use now? Or maybe the real question is whether you are happy.  Not in the sense of the temporary euphoria that comes with a new toy, or a new fuck toy, but a profound satisfaction that comes from knowing that you discovered and followed your passion. Many in my generation said our passion was peace. History says we settled for a piece of the action instead. No matter how long our hair was in 1969, the odds are we abandoned our dreams of peace and love a

Mexico moves slow. S-L-O-W As in suspended animation. No one is in a hurry. Get an invitation to a party at 7? Show up at 10. No problem. You're early. Need something fixed? “I’ll be there Tuesday.” But you don’t know which Tuesday. At the gas station where my chiquitas work , they are renovating an old convenience store. “How long until it’s open?” I asked the gas man a month ago. “Two weeks.” “How long until it’s open?” I asked the gas man yesterday. “Two weeks.” “If I ask you next week, ‘how long until it’s open,’ what are you going to say, gas man?” “Two weeks.” He smiled. He knew. That he didn’t know. Mostly he didn’t care. Everything is slower here. I like it that way. Time spreads out. Life becomes a stream of consciousness novel. You can focus on what you’re doing or going to do, rather than the time someone you don't give a shit about expects you to do it. Everything is slower. Everything except driving. Last week, I was on a two lane road