THE PARTY GUY

There is this 65-year-old man who parties like a kid. I call him Charlie, even though that isn’t his real name. Charlie is white-haired and wrinkled because of his age. As a chronologiacally challenged babyboomer who defies the laws of old age, he’s still on the dance floor with the energy of a teenager. Given a chance, long-boxed and confined between neutered grand-age cohorts, he pulls chicks half his age for a convention dance twirl/grind. With a certain admirable joie de vivre, Charlie still wears his neon-coloured fanny pack out to parties, and he busts out some really sick dancertrocities with that fanny pack going all up and down in rhythm. You can sense all the people silently wishing that they had the kind of freedom and ambivalent selfishness that Charlie embodies and exemplifies at those parties.

Plus, as an added bonus, if you ever need anything at a party—snacks, gum, or even a Band-Aid—you can understand that all you need to do is call Charlie. He just might have it in his wondrous fanny pack!
And when he goes out with his family, they can never keep up with him; they're usually exhausted and calling it a night while Charlie is just getting warmed up! He never fails to leave them in bewildered amazement as he rounds up the youngsters for one more round of shots at 2 a.m. His grandkids think their grandfather is nuts, but they’ll love him for it because they’re partly in awe of that boyish energy he still harbours, thinking to themselves that if only they had one head of steam left... at their age!