Even going on 52, sometimes I still feel it. Out of place, not fitting in, looking for a way to escape. Sobriety compounds it. Country club members by the pool, tennis courts in the background. Walking shorts that have been dry cleaned. “After that round of VC meetings we broke out my best Scotch … Have you played this golf course, bro? … Yes, but did you go to Augusta this year? … This wine is from my favorite vineyard … Guys, if we’re not careful, the liberals are going to White House again …” And I can’t get into my car fast enough. And I can’t turn this kind of music up loud enough. I doubt a single one of them gives a hoot about the Replacements.