los 41

There is a type of man whose ego is more pumped up than his muscles, and whose maturity is still waiting in line somewhere past forty. They know how to make a grand entrance - with a watch, a smile, and a cigarette against a backdrop of drama - but they exit like bad actors: falsely, loudly, and off-script. And it would be funny if it weren't so familiar. The music seems to slam the door - loudly, with anger and pleasure. Because sometimes the best way to say goodbye to immaturity is to just dance alone, watching as another “main character” leaves for his theater of cheap gestures.