Q: I am one step closer to being in the Gordie Howe Sex Club (GHSC). Gordie played during five different decades of the NHL; my goal is to sleep with a woman who was born during five different decades. This past weekend I finally slept with a woman from the 1990s (I had ’60s, ’70s, ’80s). I am really excited now that I have knocked out four different decades. After sharing the news we got to debating whether I should suck it up and go for a woman that was born in 1959 or wait until 2018. I figured I needed to get the Sports Guy opinion. Should I go old or go young?
—Mark J., Los Angeles
It’s late. 1
The Astas are both abed. Today we saw a flaming man fly across a long dark expanse. He landed on a air mattress. Immediately he bounced up, stood and walked — still ablaze — toward the audience. Fire extinguisher equipped clowns stumbled in and smothered him with white bubbly foam. Now not on fire, he wrapped himself in a brilliant red and ermine cape, raised his arms in an encompassing salutation, and regally strolled offstage.
As I write Hell On Wheels is playing in the background. It’s the worst sort of tripe. I keep it on as background noise, similar to Ira Glass’s The American Life; the difference between the two – perspective.
Nominally a man (one presupposes) I have in the past engaged in like conversations: women bedded — or not, how and why. These dicussions are after all a barroom staple, such a trope that every “man” show on teh TV must include at least one scene wherein the protagonist finds himself musing over the topic, if not boasting of Chamberlain-like prowess. I just made reference to similar behaviour on a newish KC blog less than an hour ago.
I am now of an age when talk of this nature arises I remain silent: been there, done that, own the bone bruises. I drift through shows like Hell On Wheels as accidental comedies, not templates for an alternate life. These days the notion of a man on fire is a set piece, thoroughly blocked out lest someone be hurt. Funny what time and daughters will do.
Besides, no one is truly interested in going beyond the (imaginary) pros/cons of younger vs older. The tacit purpose of such conversations is to reassure ourselves that we’re men and will, b’god, have our way (in so far as this particular conversation goes): a woman’s indifference, laughter or scorn be damned. Goooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooal!
Public baying at the moon, with no more significance than a group of women suddenly departing en masse for the restroom.