What were you doing when you were 23?

Fat, purple, cholesterol-ridden, burger-pimping, clown-fellating sack of grease. I bet you and the Hamburglar had some fun in that prison cell.

 

(NSFWish)

That rant reminded me of this. The Governator and Barney.

 

I have to laugh whenever the media (yes, the media) makes a big deal out of the age of these web-site pioneers.

"... and he's only 23!!!!"

Like a 60-year old is going to come up with the idea for Facebook.

OF COURSE he's young!

 

Twenty-three was last year, year of my first real job at a tiny daily in a po-dunk town. Working six days every week and doing literally anything and everything one could possibly do in a sports section (photos, reporting, editing, layout, etc). Ten months later and I'm on my second job covering a college football beat at a semi-decent sized daily. So at 23-24 (current time), I'm clawing my way up like everybody else.

 

Doing field organizing nationally for Mo Udall's presidential campaign, and utterly despairing of ever making a living at writing.

 

Living in the tropics, golfing, biking, shopping, traveling to cool places on a whim, spending my days off poolside, washing my car in 75-degree weather in February, going out with the girls, covering football, trying new and exciting beers, going home once a year ...

Yeah, that was the life at 23. But a few years later, I think I've got it good now, too.

 

Final quarter of 5 years at the university; spring quarter with 8 units and law school on the horizon. No responsibilities (except waiting tables 2/week and making about $20/hr). Then moved to SF for law school and met some great friends playing softball. Late night warehouse dancing and partying in SF with an apartment and garage spot (Depeche Mode/Flock of Seagulls/Expose). Man life was good.

 

Well, first off, I was living down South under the alias Jed. My cover story was that I was a poor mountaineer, and to tell you the truth, I could barely keep my family fed.

Then one day, I was out shooting for some food, and up from the ground came a bubblin' crude.

Oil that is, some of the locals called it black gold or texas tea.

I never really understood what they meant.

Next thing I know, I'm a freaking billionaire and this neighbor of mine said that I should move, because California was the place I wanted to be.

I loaded up the truck and moved to Beverly. Hills that it. They have swimming pools and movie stars.

Chaos ensued.


.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Ok, so at 23 I was am a sarcastic bastard.

 

At 23, working 2 jobs totalling about 60 hours a week. But having boatloads of fun while doing it all.

 

I was two years out of college and covering a I-AA football beat for a good-sized paper, and I still have a grand time trading barbs with that coach — usually via text-message now. I really miss the relationships I had with several I-AA coaches from my time on that beat.

 

When I was 23? Literally, the worst year of my life, way too humiliating to recount in full detail here ...

The one memory I have was my 23rd birthday. It was the last time I ever threw a punch. Some guy crashed my birthday party and I tossed him out. He got in his pickup truck, rolled down the window and yelled racial epithets at my two friends who were with me in the front yard. Called one of my buddies a kike and the other a nigger.

I walked up to the truck, pulled the driver's side door open, pinned his throat with my right hand and with my left hand punched him in the mouth as hard as I could, as often as I could, until somebody grabbed me. I knocked three of his teeth out.

The next morning, I awoke in my girlfriend's bed. She put my shirt on and discovered a large patch of blood and demanded to know if I was hurt. But I had no wounds. The blood belonged to the other guy.

To paraphrase the late, great Dr. Gonzo, I hate to advocate violence, drugs or insanity. But they've always worked for me.