The Holdfast

Arrogant pseudo street-philosophers often steal John Donne's quip that "no man is an island." Ignorant poseurs. Man is at his finest when he voluntarily withdraws from the hollow routine that governs modern life.  Give the werewolf a stout hold-fast with a moat and assuming it is well provisioned, they'll be resolutely rebuffed.

Welcome to The 29 Club

The werewolf was thrust through the doors of The 29 Club today. As we get older, each passing year seems to elapse quicker than the previous one. It's like compound interest, except applied to time, perspective and speed. Years felt like lifetimes during the ignorant days of my youth. Perhaps the dull and mundane routine of elementary school combined with a lack of perspective is what made time feel so slow back in the day. Now, I am desperately searching for way to put the brakes on time.

In many ways, I'd liken my experience during my 20s to the "Roaring 20s" in American history. The early and mid-part of the decade were loaded with excitement, opportunity, and optimism. However, as the end of the decade approached, the bubble I was living in violently burst, and getting back-on-track has proven a Herculean task. 28 was an incredibly shitty year by most metrics for the werewolf, so although somewhat ambivalent about crossing the threshold, he hopes that the psychological chance to start afresh actually lends itself to something tangible and measurable.

It's freaky to think I am fast approaching 30, which is halfway to 60, which in turn is more than halfway to certain death. I graduated from high school in June of 2000 and can vividly recall most of the past decade. I am slightly more than a decade away from being 40, which used to seem geriatric and unimaginably far off when I was a whelp.  In turn, the optimistic vitality of youth has given-way to the dark realities of mortality and getting my crap in order. In some ways, I have meet my internal goals for myself, in other ways, I have fallen drastically short. Oddly, the expansive and ambitious certainty that governed my disposition a few years ago has morphed into something that is far less certain and much more aware of the constraints and limitations that exist.

Things I have noticed the last few years:

I can no longer metabolize chill-cheese bacon burgers and double-dipped milkshakes with the same enthusiasm and carelessness of my teenage years. Still few things are as grand as a dozen raw oysters, a rare dry-aged porterhouse, warm buttered bread, and a giant baked potato with the works.

The hair on my head is diminishing resource. Despite my emotional protests, it seems to be recolonizing down my back.

Hard-drinking and partying with reckless abandon is still fun and admirable. 2-day Hangovers aren't.

I can live just fine without vodka. However, the mere thought of going sans bourbon, gin, rye, or rum is truly depressing.

I am struggling with the trends in humor or perhaps what passes for current humor isn't funny. With a few current expectations, movies and television isn't as funny as it used to be. I still yearn to play golf at Bushwood Country Club, go to Wally World, trade pork belly futures with the Duke Brothers, travel to Zumunda, and find that Torino with no wheels in East St. Louis.

Freedom and individuality are growing scarce. Cherish them.

You start to really know who your friends are and will be. Long standing relationships, rich with history, are one of the most gratifying things we experience.

Our entry visas on this planet are truly brief, before our exit visa gets stamped. It is time to start making each-and-every day count.

Warren Zevon: Werewolves of London (live)

In many ways this is the anthem that paves the way for all the werewolf does in this humble life. Likely, it is the finest song ever written. It has often been speculated that werewolf was conceived following a Warren Zevon concert in late 1980 or early 1981. It was during the summer of 1998, while drinking too much gin on the banks of the Zambezi river, playing a drawn out game of chess with a profoundly decent and generous Afrikaner at the Tahita Falcon Lodge in southern Zambia, that the epic nature of this song revealed itself.

Not sure what Warren has been drinking or smoking prior to this performance, but the legend himself is en fuego during this clip. I would have given the thumb on my left paw to see this song performed live by the maestro. Enjoy!

The White Wedding

Last Saturday the werewolf found himself in Staunton, Virginia. He was attending the "white wedding" of a business school friend he's written about previously. The werewolf learned that Staunton is the birthplace of the progressive movement's favorite segregationist, President Woodrow Wilson. Although small and remote, the foothills of western Virginia are stunning in their beauty, and the town had a quaint charm that made it tolerable for the 18-hour incursion. After clearing the vast jungle of DC suburbs, the drive itself was scenic and calming. It was also refreshing to catch-up with several friends from the days of business school yore.

The wedding itself was an experience. Despite the fact that he considers the recently minted bride a friend, it doesn't discount how unhinged she had become during  time that the werewolf has gotten to know her in pursuit of her fanatical quest to get married. True to form, the wedding was replete with several cringe worthy moments that were engineered by the bride's over-zealous approach to getting married. The bride allowed her hunt for a wedding dress to be filmed by TLC's garish display of bridezillaism "Say Yes to the Dress." Highlights from the episode include her bragging about how "pure she is on account of being of 31-year virgin," crying over not getting the dress she wanted, listening to hear mother boast about how she "deserves to wear white," and watching the mother trying to haggle over prices as if she was some sort of Turkish rug-merchant.  'Twas a creepy and weird spectacle. Anyhow, back to the wedding.

The werewolf went into this whole venture not knowing what to expect other than some sort of mild disaster. True to form, it manifested early. Firstly, the wedding was aggressively marketed by the bride as some sort of hyper-Southern wedding. The dress-code on the invitation was "classy southern." (It should be noted the bride was born and raised in Northern California and didn't move to the south until college and is about as southern as the werewolf is liberal.) However, "classy southern" gave the werewolf extra-cause to do what he loves and kick his sense-of-style into high gear. He sported a blended linen-silk patch pocketed tip-over sport coat, with a yellow-blue patterned English shirt, a Churchillesque dotted bow-tie, seersucker slacks, weathered brown loafers, and his favorite Labrador themed belt. When he strolled into to the chapel, he found himself in a sea of drab black and gray, ill-fitting suits; accompanied by ties so ugly he wouldn't donate them to the blind. It could have easily been mistaken for a funeral for someone not well liked. The only source of color was the shiny and monochromatic sea foam green tie and pocket square combos being worn by the groomsmen and the mossy colored dresses being worn by the bridesmaids.

For all of the hoopla and the television debut, the bride's dress was remarkably traditional and somewhat forgettable. The fringes/hem looked as if they be cut from the gnarled roots found at the base of an old tree. However, she had a veil that was larger than the mosquito nets that the werewolf had grown accustomed to sleeping under during his time in black Africa. I guess it's called a cathedral veil, but this should be donated to some mosquito relief foundation that could be used to cover the beds of a dozen African children. It (the veil) had it's own train that must have flowed several feet behind the bride. It was so large that it actually got caught by the friction caused by the carpet and become dislodged. The seething rage behind the brides eyes at this unforeseen imperfection was most amusing.

However, some of the most cringe worthy moment occurred during the actual service.Word like submit, submission, obey, and respect were thrown around with such casualness that the werewolf was expecting a slave auction to follow. One of the lines included how a wife "must submit to the man the way the man submits to the lord," and how "submission is the ultimate act of love." Early in their friendship, the bride used to claim the mantle of being a proud, strong, and independent woman. There was one point where the minister went into speech about how he had asked the bride and groom to write letters to the lord about what they see in each other and what they expect from their marriage. The bride was quoted "liking how [the groom] embraces his manhood." That line almost set the werewolf off. On the upside, the service was just shy of an hour in length which was a small act of respect for the attendees.

However, with every yin, there is a yang. Having briefly re-entered the 18th century during the service, the werewolf was pleased that the reception was held at a local vineyard where he could re-enter the modern world with the help of some grape-distilled lubrication. Although no hard-liquor was served, the wedding was pouring generous amounts of beer and vino. The local vintage was decent and became more-so after each glass was consumed. It was here that the werewolf lived up to his jack-assy reputation. He ended up running around the reception with his fly down for a good portion of the evening. It has shown up in a few photos and made him blush ex post facto. The food was edible, the cake excellent, and the band, a bunch of kids hired from UVA, played a great set list that ranged from Miles Davis to Jackson Brown to KC & The Sunshine Band.At one point, some body's little four year old was doing these strange Pilate's moves in the middle of the dance floor that warmed every one's hearts.

It should be further noted that the wedding photographer was this petite woman who was so pregnant that her stomach looked like a large breast with an erect nipple.

As much as he tried, the werewolf couldn't find the opportunity to land the back-handed compliment he was hungry to try. In hindsight, it was probably for the best that he held his tongue. He did walk away realizing that this whole exercise in getting married was about the bride living out her longstanding fantasy of being the center of attention at a wedding more than forming a meaningful and lasting partnership with the groom. It's sad that validation is sought through such superficial status and a single event. 

Here are a few pictures of the werewolf's attempt at "southern class." For the record, the chick in the first picture is 6'2 and the werewolf is not a midget.

The werewolf unmasked.

The werewolf has been semi-inspired by his blog friend and goddess of snark, Legally Fabulous, to give his readers a better idea of who he is, so they don't confuse him with Sean Connery. (He's not nearly that cool or badastic anyways, and he knows he never will be) Plus, in the near-to-mid future, he hopes to start getting more into writing about men's style and how he presents himself to the world so the mask was bound to come off at some point.



Casino Night during his second year at business school. This is the werewolf at his best.

On the at stage at Lonnie's West End.

The werewolf has karaoked in a tux...

Halloween is his favorite. Hail to the King.

At the top of Lion's Head, Cape Town.

The werewolf was drinking Pina Coladas at Trader Vic's, and his hair was...

Musings, high-beams, and bushy eyebrows.

Today was one of those days that went by quickly with no good reason. It wasn't too busy, it wasn't too slow. What one would assume to be an near ideal pace, methinks. Where morning arrival, lunch, afternoon tea (yes, the werewolf makes himself a Lipton's black tea around 3pm; it's rude to mock what you don't understand), and quitting time were all reasonably spaced and the lull in between never asserted itself in an ugly way.  

Although, he works in a building that is directly across the street for the Capitol South metro stop, on the House-side of the Hill, the werewolf is loathe to ride the metro out of his way when he can walk. He normally uses the Union Station metro stop, which is on the Senate-side of Capitol Hill as his preferred stop on the metro. This means he is guaranteed a nice walk across Capitol, with full vistas of the Supreme Court, the Capitol Building, Library of Congress, and House and Senate office buildings. It is a walk that never gets old. The people watching is a regular spectacle unto itself to boot. Staffers with inflated egos, some with style, others hopelessly drab specimens of humanity. Young interns, old functionaries and party hacks, throngs of tourists,students, all make for added accents.

Today, there was an added distraction to the regular fray. An athletic looking female, about the same height as the werewolf, 5'9, red-headed, with a body toned to near-perfection - not overly muscular, although her stomach was as flat as the deck of an aircraft carrier, with marginal, if any flab elsewhere- was out for a late afternoon jog. True to her athletic disposition, she wore only a sleek black racer-back sports bra, running shorts, shoes, and a sweat band. Here's where things got interesting. Her breasts, smallish, yet perfectly formed C-cups, were bouncing with a rhythmic purpose that matched her cadence in the most seductive of ways. As she closed in on the werewolf and the distance allowed for details to be determined, he noticed she had very pronounced high-beams set on near blinding brightness. (For those of you that do not speak "man-talk," high-beams refer to a woman's erect nipple that is visible through her clothing.) Like two beacons begging for attention, the werewolf's radar locked on these two targets like heat-seeking missile onto the exhaust of a jet-engine. As she crested it past him, his head shamelessly turned his head and he strained his neck muscles to admire this passing siren, and then THWACK! The werewolf, being a total asshole and buffoon, knocked the wind out of himself by walking directly into a parking meter. He missed nailing his jewels narrowly.  As the werewolf yelped and colorfully cursed at the parking meter, a fellow pedestrian rightfully chuckled at the werewolf's expense. After rescanning the area, the ginger-siren had drifted off screen. That sort of sums up how good things have been ending for the werewolf for the past few years.

While at the gym, the werewolf encountered an oddity of a new order. A rotund, pear-shaped older man - who liked like a dorky, civil-servant cross between the uber-dweeb introvert Milton Wadams from Office Space, and Thufir Hawit from Dune - had finished his workout and was grooming himself. Although balding, the man had the bushiest most pronounced eyebrows the werewolf had ever seen on a human. They looked almost like little flattened squirrel tails or something. They were so absurdly bushy and pronounced that the man was actually blow-drying his eyebrows. He had a little comb to brush the moisture out while he was blow-drying them. It was unreal and the strangest thing the werewolf has seen in several weeks. The werewolf was paralyzed by this scene unfolding in-front of him for about 3 seconds, do to the level of bizarreness it encapsulated. 

Exile still sucks, but today had some cosmic humor injected into it.

RIP: The Last Hour of Brooks Brothers in Downtown Los Angeles

Although long and permanently estranged from his hometown of Los Angeles, the werewolf was slightly saddened to read this pensive and reflective obituary of the Brooks Brothers flagship in downtown Los Angeles.

The werewolf knew this particular Brooks Brothers rather well. It will always have a special place in his black heart. It was late during the summer of 1999, a few weeks before the werewolf was set to return to New Hampshire to wrap up his senior year of high school, that he was first formerly introduced to this branch of classic men's clothing retailer. The werewolf's father invited him downtown for lunch at the grill room in the esteemed Jonathan Club (a classic Los Angeles social club that despite a fading reputation and growing detachment from the old-world ethos that made it so worthy, remains one of the greatest places on earth and a perennial favorite of the werewolf's). The werewolf's devotion, affection, and nostalgia for the "J Club" merit a post unto itself one of these days. It also reflected a cherished time of naive innocence and blissful optimism prior to werewolf's estrangement from his family and the jading effect that life's hurdles and frustrations permanently impress upon us took root.

Prior to his retirement, the werewolf's father worked on the 24th floor of 777 South Figueroa, one of the most commanding and attractive sky-scrappers in downtown Los Angeles ,which loosely resembled a tiered wedding cake from afar. On a clear day, it providing not only captivating views of other sky-scrappers, but beyond the nearly infinite suburban sprawl, the occasionally snow-caped mountains east of Los Angeles could be seen when the smog wasn't too obstructive. It always gave one good reason to pause on a clear day. The office building itself was about four or five blocks south of the Jonathan Club, with the storied Brooks Brothers location exactly in between.

It was a beautiful, albeit, slightly toasty summer day in Los Angeles. After parking the faithful old Acura Legend at the J Club and walking down to his father's office because that is how it was done back then, the werewolf recalls the pleasant small-talk walking back to the J-Club to enjoy lunch in the Grill Room. After lunch, the old man informed the werewolf that a jaunt to Brooks Brothers, just down the street, was in order because it was time he had a real suit.

It was the werewolf's first suit buying experience. It was a pretty cool. He had occasionally gone with his father to GB Harb & Son, a old LA tailor-shop, and always admired the sense of style and impeccable fit that ensured from those trips, yet was too young to understand how it could possibly apply to him.

The downtown Brooks Brothers store was surprisingly voluminous and had an expansive series of suit racks accommodating every type of potential customer out there. After long and deliberate discussion with both his father and salesman, the werewolf settled on a two-buttoned, pleated, charcoal gray suit from Brooks Brothers entry-level line. The salesman was impeccably thought and offered what seemed to be prudent advice at the time. There was a brief flurry of debate about pinstripes, which the werewolf's father was wearing that day, but being young, brash, and unsure of his style, the understated universality of the charcoal gray won at his father's aggressive urging. The suit itself was legendary and would endure seven years of hard use by the werewolf before being retired. It survived countless job interviews, two summer internships on Capitol Hill, a brief stint in London, countless student government meetings, several wild parties in South Africa, including one where it ended up, along with the werewolf, in a swimming pool chasing a pretty girl. It was worn so much, that eventually it just gave-out in certain areas - the seems connecting the sleeves to the jack body tore and one of the pockets got caught on something leaving gash in the side of the pants -  although it always fit rather well for on OTR suit, and as the werewolf got older, and lost and gained weight cyclically, it seemed to conform to his body obediently. A white and blue oxford cloth button-down, along with a regimental tie, that the werewolf's father called "a Reagan tie," and busy paisley tie were also acquired that day. Nowadays, the werewolf wouldn't get caught dead OCBD with a suit, but it worked well back then.

Although he never frequented that Brooks Brothers, his seasonal visits to that store and first time suit buying experience will always resonate with him. The werewolf loves a good Brooks Brothers suit, but has evolved to prefer made-to-measure suits form  Samuelsohn or Adrian Jules mixed in with several old-faithfuls from Brooks Brothers.

Having long left LA, the werewolf knows his sadness is slightly illogical and strange. Yet, he can't help but feel like downtown Los Angeles has lost out on some level. Here's to cherished memories.

Is it really Saturday?

Despite being a tad nippy outside, it's a rather a stunning Saturday here in the District. The sun is shining and the cherry blossoms are beginning to emerge. As the werewolf drove into work this morning, he was briefly mesmerized by the wonderful spectrum of color provided by the throngs of kites be flown on the national mall. He regrets not being able to snap a picture, as it made for a fantastic visual. He was also infinitely amused by the ragged looked human derelict on a beat-up old bicycle who had an 1980s era battery operated ghetto-blaster strapped to the frame, blaring some sort of heinous rap, as he wove in and out of semi-gridlocked traffic. The werewolf appreciates humanity in the raw on occasion.

 Although still busy, this week was far more sedate than his first week in DC. The werewolf was able to be semi-social on one occasion this week. He was reintroduced to an understated and agreeable pub near Dupont Circle known at The Darlington. Not too snobby, nor too dingy, reasonably priced, with an acceptable variety of spirits, it has the making of a venue where the werewolf can imagine himself holding court on occasion. It was an interesting night, because the werewolf discovered a new spring appropriate beer, Leinenkugel Sunset Wheat; crisp, refreshing, with a hint of fruit, it is very easy to drink by the pitcher. It’s similar to Blue Moon, but doesn’t feel as heavy. The lascivious vixen from a fortnight yore also serendipitously entered stage left for a portion of the evening. Since it was a weeknight, and work was on the agenda early the next morning, no tomfoolery ensued. However, the werewolf will never complain when a pretty young fox enjoy his tipsy musings at agreeable venues.

 It’s a Saturday afternoon, and there a dozen better places to be sniffing around than being online, so the werewolf is off to capture what is left of this weekend.

A week in review

The werewolf apologies for being a truant blogger. So much has happened this past week. The transition from having an abundance of free-time to managing a scarcity of it has adversely impacted his blogging. Much to his eternal dismay. It's about half past eleven on a Friday night, and the werewolf finally has enough time to try and pound out an overdue post.

The weekend looks to be as chaotic as this past week was. Tomorrow morning, in true Kosavarian refugee style, the werewolf packs up his meager possessions into the Saab-story, and moves from downtown DC, to a small, but tranquil neighborhood in a northern pocket of DC. He's renting a furnished room in a rather nice, if not slightly cluttered house, from this strange older lady with bohemian inclinations, who has two cats for the next few months. (The werewolf believes that dogs are man's great ally in this struggle called life, and has absolutely no utility for cats. Plus, he is inherently skeptical of women with cats.)

As much as he loves crashing on his dear friends' couch, with all of the gourmet food, regular consumption of alcohol, the inclination toward tomfoolery, good company, and great location; being the third wheel attached to happily married couple in a small, but charming, urban loft isn't conducive to healthy long-term outcomes of one the most cherished relationships a werewolf can have. The move will get interesting because tomorrow is the Washington, DC marathon, and all easy routes from point A to point B are obstructed.

However, there is an additional hiccup to the weekend. The werewolf has been asked to work eight-hour shifts on both Saturday and Sunday. This doesn't bother the werewolf in the slightest, as he is prepared to work his paws off and the work being done is on the front line of the trenches of the upcoming health care vote in the House of Representatives. (It's grim looking folks, the dastardly dems are within inches of marshalling the needed votes to ensure we are on a road to serfdom.)  Since arriving in DC, the werewolf hasn't really had a chance to catch his breath properly. It looks like it will have to wait until next weekend. That being said, the shift from stale idleness of unemployed exile to frenetic overwork is embraced with the alacrity and joy of being reunited with your favorite lover.

The job is interesting. The werewolf works as a staff member for the political communications arm of one of the Republican congressional campaign outfits. The hours are long, 8am to 7pm, on a good day. But the days have yet to drag. They actually fly by much quicker then the werewolf's old days in the insurance brokerage or as vassal in the tobacco castle. There isn't a moment that has gone by this week with out the screaming chorus of buzzing phones, floods of emails, pressing deadlines, and such. Oh, the joys of a political press operation. While exhausting, it's good place for him at the moment. Plus, it's quite the cast of characters with whom he works. Expect some forthcoming posts about the girl whose laugh sounds like a warthog being gassed, the Kardashian wannnabe, the congresswoman who won't stay on script, and the mysterious soup filled crock pot that pops up in the oddest places.

That's all at the moment. Please bear with me as I get my ducks lined-up. In the meantime, have a great weekend.

The Police: Man In A Suitcase (live)

Unlike certain fine wines, the Police did not get better with age. That doesn't discredit the occasional hit they produced during their later years, nor is it an attempt to impugn Sting's strange, yet occasionally decent solo career. Quite simply, they just happened to produce their best stuff during their first act. Their Zenyatta Mondatta album and its edgy blend of punk, reggae and new wave is unreal and never ceases to be a great listening experience. "Man in A Suitcase" may be the best Police song you have never heard before given all of the self-pitying strange musical experiments, like "Every Breath You Take," that seem to anchor their reputation by today's flaccid standards.

It's been an interesting few weeks for the werewolf. Last week he rejected the gradual stagnation of exile in suburban New York and relocated to Washington, DC, to pursue an opportunity in politics. Exile is still far from over.

The werewolf is grateful that his best friend of many a year, the Legal Beagle, has a loft in Chinatown and has allowed the werewolf to crash on the couch for the time being. A fringe benefit has been being spoiled by the Legal Beagle's gourmand wife, as he just watched her pack his lunch for tomorrow. It'll be hard to leave both the good company and excellent food that the Legal Beagle's yuppie domicile provides. Valuing relationships and nurturing credibility have been some of exile's key takeaways thus far.

This weekend will mark a strange new chapter in exile as the werewolf sublets a room in a house from a old hippyish, cat lady. They say life comes at you fast sometimes. No shit. The price is right for the time being and it gives the werewolf the ability to chase his dreams. Even though he will literally be a man in a suitcase for the next two to three months.

The abrupt move to DC has done wonders for his confidence and sense of self-worth. In some ways, the werewolf is beginning to reconnect with his long lost mojo. A prized characteristic he thought had atrophied months ago.

To celebrate his moving to DC, the werewolf allowed himself out of the cage and behaved as if the moon was full this past Saturday night. Although rusty and a tad humbler than before, he is pleased to announce that he hasn't lost his ability to be pleasantry pleasantly reckless and wild under the right circumstances. Someday he hopes to recount the improbable debauchery that ensued.

Yesterday was the first day of his transitional political job. It went well. The next few months will require some ball-busting labor, humble, but hungry attitude, and an appetite for risk. But for the first time in a long while, the werewolf feels slightly human. A-hoooo!

John Carpenter's Vampires Soundtrack - Cruel Highway - Looking Back

A song's ability to transport one back to a specific time and place can be be remarkable. Pictures can occasionally do the trick, but they can trigger different reactions as well. "Look at how thin she was back in the day," "wow, who knew you has such a thick head of hair," "those are the goofiest glasses," or "that's not you in the flannel shirt, is it?" Sometimes the right song unleashes a torrent of recall that transcends the imagery we occasionally get hung up on and recreates the atmosphere and emotions of a time. Bypassing nostalgic bullshit helps paint a more honest picture of from whence we came.

This most random song selection from John Carpenter's Vampires (a B-movie enjoyed by the werewolf) yanks the werewolf back to the winter of 2000 in New Hampshire. The maverick McCain had just captured the primary in that small state from GOP heir apparent George W. Bush. An inch or two of dirty snow on the ground defined the daily walk to class. The blistery winter wind had edge to it that the werewolf's inner-Californian never truly accepted. Uncertainty loomed. What college would he be bound for in a few months, was he really in love for the first time, what the hell was waiting ahead?

Specifically, this song brings him back to Christine Robinson's senior English seminar in a musty basement classroom in Phillips Hall. Exeter was famous for old buildings with worn down and scuffed stair cases and that constantly served as a reminder of the legions of students who had proceeded us. Exposed pipes, old bricks, no windows, and an ancient chalk board were all defined accents of that room. The crusty old lesbian ran a thoughtful classroom. Even if she didn't shave her armpits, she knew how to get you to think about what you read and tried her damnedest to make better writers of us all. No easy task when it came to the obstinate werewolf.

Specifically, he recalls an involved discussion about Quentin Compton's suicide in Faulkner's haunting novel The Sound and the Fury. It was one of the grimmest, darkest, and oddly thought-provoking classroom discussions the werewolf ever participated in. Later, a veteran and friend from the werewolf's time in Richard Morante's infamous Latin class, who was also an active participant in the aforementioned discussion, took his own life. The werewolf has been unable to pick up The Sound and The Fury since that dark day.

Being an open, liberated lesbian, Robinson would occasionally get a tad preachy and talk about famous gays to make her feel like some sort of important social change agent or whatever. Being a Los Angeleno, the werewolf recalls an odd conversation where she brought up gays in Hollywood. She asked the class to name famous gays and lesbians. Being a fan of older films and film history; Rock Hudson, Roddy McDowell, and Raymond Burr all came to the werewolf's mind and he blurted them out. She then added "did you know Errol Flynn was gay?" The werewolf said something to effect that he didn't care to know who was gay as long as John Wayne, Lee Marvin, Steve McQueen, Sean Connery, Cary Grant, and Charleton Heston continued to be Hollywood bad-asses and weren't going to be subjected to some-sort of revisionist rewrite of history that would diminish their respective legacies. Talk about a conversation killer.

Lastly, the werewolf recalls reading Othello in that classroom and actually snapping at a female classmate who kept referring to Othello as an African-American. It wasn't the first time he saw the pernicious impact of political correctness corrupt a talented mind's ability to judge history, but it was one of the more memorable instances.

Bond Title Sequence: On Her Majesty's Secret Service

To those that know him, it is no secret that the werewolf is an enthusiastic Bond fan. When he was a whelp, the werewolf's parents made the wise decision to allow him to watch all of the Bond films he could tolerate. Not only did this inform a young werewolf's sense of style (Connery), reinforce his love for the ladies, and cement his anti-communist credo, but it made him a wonderful and young jerk with an attitude. By the age of six or seven, the werewolf had committed most of the Bond films to memory, including the skiing scenes in On Her Majesties Secret Service, A View to A Kill, For Your Eyes Only and The Spy Who Loved Me. Based purely on the fact that he had watched Bond ski in four different films, the young werewolf was convinced that he himself could ski. Looking back on it, I can't think of a more ridiculous, arrogant, or asshole way to conduct myself. Needless to say, after a spectacular wipe-out, the werewolf whelp was ready to abide by his mother's advice and take skiing lessons.

Over the years, the werewolf's consistent love for the Bond franchise has manifested and matured in different ways including several failed attempts at romancing worthy young women with crass and crude one-liners. Alas, those tales merit a different post.

The werewolf has often felt that On Her Majesties Secret Service is the most under-appreciated Bond film. This isn't an attempt to glorify George Lazenby, he still sucks. Rather it is a testament to the film's captivating plot-line, which is unusually strong for a Bond film, along with the sensational beauty of Dianna Rigg (the werewolf's all time favorite Bond girl), and the clever villainy of  Telly Savalas as Bond arch-nemesis Blofeld. The music in the score along with Louis Armstrong's contribution of "We Have All the Time In World" are unreal. Anyhow, the werewolf loves the inter-franchise historical highlights captured in this Bond films opening sequence. Thoughts?

Back to Exile

The werewolf is back in suburban New York City after a great run with the highly competitive state house race in northeastern Texas(Today is ELECTION Day). Campaigns can be a great time, really. They keep you on your toes and have refreshing energy about them.

It is a strange sensation going from 0 to 60 back to 0 in quick succession. The thrill of being actively engaged and having purpose invigorates one's soul in the best of ways, especially after an extended period of involuntary idleness. However, just as quickly as the sense of purpose is satiated, a terrible vacuum and refreshed emptiness reestablish themselves. Right before he left for Texas, a series of positive developments had occurred on the job prospect front for the werewolf, or so he thought. Several first round interviews were conducted in mid-February for a variety of jobs ranging from the publishing industry, to nonprofit, to management consulting.

In an odd twist of fate, the werewolf will be proceeding to a second round interview with a management consulting firm later this week. The irony at hand is that this was the most competitive of the job vacancies that the werewolf has applied to lately, the one he thinks he is the weakest fit for, and also the toughest one to secure. He is still a long way from securing it, and the case interviews scheduled for later this week have him deeply unnerved for a variety of reasons. (Unlike normal behavioral interviews, case interviews run a gamut of possibilities and can be highly combative and intense) Yet, it also begs a fundamental question about how the labor market operates, how we find our fit within it, how to manage our expectations for ourselves and how to nurture ambitions.

Hopefully, a broader portrait of opportunity will be painted over the next few weeks and more call backs will occur. In the meantime, here's to trucking away and turning lemons into lemonade.

Bad Blogger

The werewolf is guilty of being a bad blogger this week. It's abnormally busy on this end. He's been actively engaged in a tight GOP primary in Texas, trying to sort his personal life out(ongoing project), and still looking for a real job. Those excuses are weak and some of them part of his daily routine, but explain why he has been truant from his blog. Apologies.

He promises to post about the idiot of the week award, give an update on the latest pending interviews, talk about his pair of Texas boots, the fine culinary experiences in Paris,Texas, share some takeaways from the campaign trail, and of course bloviate about something random soon. Thanks for your patience and stay tuned.

A week in review: New burger joint, a few decent laughs, exile looms

Yet another week has droned by for this werewolf in exile. Beyond the standard routine of job hunting, cover letter writing, networking, task list execution, and for the sake of stability and sanity, daily gym trips, the werewolf has a few semi-note worthy things to share.

There is a woman who bears an eerie resemblance to Helen Hunt at his gym. She's always on the same treadmill. If it is her, the last few years haven't been kind. Not from a horizontal perspective, it's just the woman's face has huge bags under the eyes. As Good as It Gets is still one of the werewolf's favorite films.

The werewolf has applied to four distinct opportunities in the energy, extractive mining, and steel industries. He hopes for at least one call-back.

An old flame turned nemesis emailed the werewolf out of the blue bitching about the tobacco industry. It caught the werewolf flat-pawed. He doesn't like being unnerved. She still lacks a sense of humor.

While on a recent visit into NYC, the werewolf discovered something new, the Black Shack: A Burger Joint. Few things excite the werewolf as much as unapologetic greasy burger joints. The Black Shack satisfies. The joint is sparse; service is attentive and quick; the burger is meaty, filling, and cheap; and the fries are crispy and salty. He'll go back. The werewolf actually met the owners while they were pouring over their spread sheets and talking market strategy one booth over. They seemed like nice and driven entrepreneurs. One of them claimed a USC MBA. 

While enjoying drinks at a bar with his brother and a good friend, the trio engaged in a brief but fascinating conversation about what foreign accent on a female is the most seductive. The werewolf's brother, the Shark, voted for an Australian accent. The werewolf recalls his friend, Patrick Bateman, suggesting a preference for a Teutonic accent.  The werewolf is highly predictable. He goes bananas for ladies with either an Anglo or Afrikaans accent from South Africa. They command a very high premium in the werewolf's valuation book.

The werewolf crossed paths with a dear friend from business school who will be completing his JD/MBA this May. Smart guy. He hates the law and has vowed never to practice it. He's looking for a finance job in NYC. Easier said than done. The werewolf and his friend commiserated about an exceedingly debaucherous New Orleans bachelor they both attended in late March of 2009. Few things make for male bonding like recalling shared memories of improbable and grotesque mischief.

It has been colder than an icicle on a polar bear's ding dong this past week. In a fitting twist of fate, the Saabstory's air conditioning died. At least it has heated seats.

As this week ends, the werewolf begins the next week with the hopes of something to liberate him from exile. Here's to something better.

Lonnie's: The best place on earth.

Catholics have the Vatican, Muslims have Mecca, kids have Disneyland, gays have San Francisco, and the werewolf has Lonnie's Western Room in Nashville, Tennessee. When the werewolf passes from this earth, his one request may be that the memorial service be held at Lonnie's.

This clip captures a remarkable specimen of humanity that is frequently on display at Lonnie's. The dude's name is Omar and the stomach slap is epic.

For better or worse, the werewolf spent a lot time engaging in tomfoolery and his second favorite pastime of blitzed karaoke on that stage. Exile has caused the werewolf to look back on the fonder moments of his odd life, and Lonnie's is regularly on the recall register. There will be a forthcoming post about karaoke, werewolf style, along with more thoughts on the legendary nature of Lonnie's. In the meantime, the werewolf assures his readers that the 40-second clip above is well worth their time.

Confessions of a not so Dangerous Mind: Aspirations vs. Reality

Exile allows the werewolf plenty of time to think. Too much, sometimes. The werewolf is a late twenty-something with a liberal arts degree, MBA, and several years of diversified professional experience in financial services, tobacco, and politics. Although described by some as an eccentric, he's your average aspirational American white dude trying to make sense of this struggle called life.

We all dream of the ideal where, what, and who we are, or shall become. For the likes of Mr. Day (see previous post), it manifests itself rather tragically, and ends pathetically. For others, it matures on a more realistic level. One of the werewolf's closest friends, a hot-shot attorney, aspires to a judgeship. The werewolf has other friends who realistically aspire to things like being a good father, a respected writer and author, a successful entrepreneur, a senator, and so on. All admirable, some realistic, and each honest in its own way. He did have an acquaintance during his undergraduate at Emory who vociferously aspired to become a dictatorial Sri Lankan strongman, while also boasting about being in a pilates class with former First Lady Rosalyn Carter. (The werewolf still isn't sure which was weirder, the dictatorial dream, or lying about pilates with a former First Lady)

The werewolf has his own conundrum. If he could be the architect of fate, the werewolf would like to have been a great white hunter in Africa during the late 19th or early 20th century, or a Rhett Butler-esque gentleman mercenary, fighting for just, but lost causes. He'd have settled for being on the frontier of the British Empire during it's nascent stage development, or being an official in President Teddy Roosevelt's State Department. Sadly, those doors were slammed shut long before the werewolf was ever conceived, so he doesn't have to worry about being seduced into some pathetic lying scheme regarding the things he never can be. The werewolf is perfectly content with harboring and nurturing those pursuits in the wild wilderness of his imagination. In the meantime, the werewolf has settled for an aspiration of not living a life of quiet desperation. He knows the world will never be his oyster, but when exile ends, as long as it ends with something that has an element of excitement, travel, or pursuit of a cause (lost or not), but bigger than he, the werewolf will accept those terms and engage with the reckless vitality that has been pent-up in exile. He'll know when these terms present themselves. In the meantime, the werewolf will never run up the white flag of surrender or become beholden to boring conformity. That is something he'll never lie about, and will take to the grave. Here's to staying true and chasing aspirations.