Handsome Devil

To my future faithful readers, prepare yourselves for a life-changing revelation.

My universe as you know it has been turned upside down. After smoking cigarettes and watching Captain Kangaroo, this middle-aged sportsman is through counting flowers on the wall. He is embracing the only occupation available to one too sissified to grab his clubs and head to Dyker Beach in the Decembery briskness that is part of Brooklyn's oppressive mantle of gloom in this season of light.

Henceforth, I am focused like a young lion on my career as male model/consultant/day trader. I have successfully consulted with someone who paid me (looking for others) and executed trades in the stock market. Alas, the modeling part is awaiting launch, but I'm sure Madison Avenue is looking for a new symbol of post-Pax Americana, the bumbling baby boomer at whom children shake their heads in sentimental but derisive indulgence.

Anyone inspecting my crib will find the requisite stacks of Sports Illustrated, dog-eared paperbacks, poker-playing dogs on the wall and flat-screen TV, which is only on for football these days. What more could an account executive wish for when looking for the next symbol of American decline with a whiff of past glory still clinging to his cheek with the help of Old Spice?

Dear reader (don't you love that in Trollope?), updates on my new career and stock picks for the Apocalypse will follow soon.