It's an odd thing to be a single male in your late twenties. And yes, my female readers may feel free now to roll their eyes and click Next Blog. But it's true. And I'm not talking about this woe is me I love this woman but I want to fuck other woman and I'm just an animal that operates on instinct alone with no self control so pity me shit. Because that is shit.

No, I'm talking about when you're at a show and you're standing next to someone who can't be any more than 16 on a good day and she makes eyes at you, which never happens to you even on a good day, and you've got to remind yourself that give or take a few years of early puberty onset, biologically speaking at least you could very possibly have been her father. And all I can think is:

Jesus. That's a first time experience worthy of a blog post.

Not to mention the fact that I'm starting to enter a period in my life where my lack of movement during the previous 30 years is starting to show. The pressure is about ready to start mounting. So should I just find someone whose face I don't want to rake against a staircase railing and consider myself lucky? No matter what her age?

Of. Course. Not.

Tonight at the Pavillion I find myself surrounded by myself at various stages of my life. Leave it to an all ages show to make you nostalgic for those years of your past that were a living hell at the time but now on retrospect seem exciting and full of endless possibility. Even though they were neither.

That guy hiding in the shadows in the furthest back corner? There's me at 14, so pumped full of anti-acne medication that one drop of my semen would burn through five layers of titanium steel. And see that couple that hasn't stopped necking through three bands? That's me at 16 with the first girl to ever see me in my underpants other than my mother (and my dermatologist!). Oh look. See that group standing over there? That's me at various points during my late teens and early 20s... pseudo goth, closet stoner, worthless degree earner, deadend job holder.

It's like a final scene from a Wes Anderson film except instead of all the characters from the plot the camera pans past me at different ages. Or, perhaps more accurately, any shot from a Fellini film populated by deformities, misfits and freak show runaways.

Finally I hit the urinal before I take the long cold lonely walk home. While tucking my hand into my sweater in order to pull the bathroom door open without having to actually touch the handle, I look at my reflection in the mirror. Here I am, more than a quarter century old, a borderline germaphobe, pretty much at the same point as any number of the versions of myself I ran into this evening.

Let's hear it for history repeating itself, the circularity of nature and a half a bottle of cheap wine waiting for you when you get home.