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Dens Of Sin

Classic rock blares through tired, worn speakers. They're blown out of course, as seems to be the requisite for every dive bar in the known world. Dens of sin and regret dotting the map of the globe like the pockmarks adorning their most devout denizens like badges. I love them. Nondescript treasuretroves of history, experience and hard won life. I read alot, indiscriminately voraciously, but let me tell you that the best advice and most readily applicable wisdom Ive ever received came from a 53 year old biker in Imperial Beach called Teddy, rather than the hovels of stiff intolerance and willful ignorance occupied by some staunch, ancient academic breathing shallowly as to not waste the precious few breaths they have remaining. Maybe its my age, but I find I prefer the women more as well. Nights like the last prove and reinforce to me the rapidly declining quality of girls from 18-22 (except for you Bonnie, if youre reading this. You know that youre different beautiful). But the 28 year old with a body tight from an eclectic mix of roller derby, scuba diving and acro-yoga? Sign me up. Their maturity belies their youthful appearances, and Ive seen more than a few young college girls suffering the onset of aesthetic degredation brought about by excessive drinking, abuse of snow and dedicated riding of the cock carousel. In a club, hi is an insult and an overpriced, wallet draining drink is an expectation. Meanwhile, in one of these Edens, a drink is a reward for intelligent conversation and precocious flirtation. Call me rustic, but I feel better in black ball cap, grey shirt, Levi's and boots then an exorbitant, ill-fitting suit and the melodramatic sneer of those with an affectation inconsistent with who they truly are underneath their Saturday night facade. If youre buying bottle service then living off Ramen for the next few weeks, youre a fucking idiot. Screw the nauseatingly entitled urban princess flaunting surgically acquited assets. Give me the hard drinking, tattooed country girl who appreciates my darkness. Couldn't ask for anything more.

There was a period in my life where, obsessed with luxuriousness and materialism, I sought to emulate those I seen as wealthy. Unknown to a woefully misinformed and naive 19 year old, aside from the ridiculously wealthy elite, the richest men and women in America were the owners of blue collar businesses. Plumbers, electricians, welders, exterminators and carpenters to name a few. When the authors of The Millionaire Next Door, the source of this wonderously liberating information, invited these masters of affluence to a party and symposium they were hosting to pick their brains for the secrets and techniques of accumulating a prodigious amount of money, they purchased expensive caviars and exquisite foreign wines. They filled tables to the brim with these forbidden delicacies, only to see them untouched and unhandled by the night's conclusion. Their guests, it seemed, were repelled rather than enticed by the treats, and indeed found them pretentious and repugnant. Learning from their misdeeds, by the next gathering of financial virtuosos, the ostentatious offerings had been replaced by more modest contributions. The caraffes of Cheateau had been replaced by cold bottles of Budweiser, and the obnoxious finger foods were replaced by distinctly Americana fare like fried chicken and barbecque. Unsuprisingly, they were gloriously and greatfully recieved. Upon relaxing and being understandly more comfortable, the denizens of the discussion began to open up. In short, they eschewed the classic trappings of material wealth in favor of a simpler life, living naturally and harmoniously within their means, accumulating impressive levels of liquid cash and ironclad investments in the process. The men wore work boots, ball caps, Wranglers and tshirts, while the women dressed nearly identically, save for the occassional sundress, though I don't know who would complain at the substitute. They splurged occasionally of course, especially seeing as how theyd long since earned the right. A boat and jet skis docked outside a palatial vacation home maybe, flown to in coach of course. The point is that I realized that there are two types of men in this world. Type A dresses well in personally tailored Hugo Boss suits, with the inherent refinement accentuated by gold Rolex watches and Sutor Mantellasi leather shoes. He drives a Lexus, BMW, or Mercedes. He purchases obscenely expensive bottle service in exclusive nightclubs in his chosen city. If he has the career required to fund these extravagant pursuits, then I have nothing to say. He has put in the work and deserves to partake in the spoils. But those men are few and far between. The majority of these guys are poseurs, some even taking out loans to fund their ridiculous escapades. Which brings us to my preferred archetype, which Ive creatively dubbed Type B. These guys know they're not rich, not by a longshot. But they're not poor, broke or destitute either. Usually members of some sort of trade or military service, they are down to earth, physically strong, honest and real. They have no need to dress flashy to impress people they dont care for. They usually come from a country, rural background. This approach works best in my opinion because it draws sincere, feminine women towards you while repelling the gold diggers and potential problems. These women are quality. In the end, the choice is yours. But for once in life, I believe that its painfully clear which route to take.

The greatest men and women known to the annals of history have always been set upon by those beneath them. Detractors with no credible reason to insult, critics with no actual skin in the game, and even enablers that do little to inhibit the worst portions of your personality, they all combine to form a concentration of negativity focused solely on those going nowhere but up. I believe myself to be one of those ascendants, wholeheartedly and fervently, and will allow nothing to break my concentration or confidence. With the world raging furiously against me I anchor myself to all that I hold true. Compassion is something denied to me by this world, eked out in small measures, accessible only through devout prayer, benevolent interference and miracles, and those blessed times Im home on leave. The world is hard, so I am harsher. I need no reprieve from reality because I am reality. Bring it.


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