He had a philosophy that put him behind his own private eight-ball. Maybe under it. A way of living too in the moment, at the cost of finances and relationships and self-restraint. And at 42, he was deep along the spectrum into man-child. “It’s called indulging the spirit of youth,” he’d say. Which was partly wishful and mostly bullshit. The good news was that they cared: the friends he’d salvaged and the family he’d fall against between adventures, his word. The bad news was that they’d rarely drop a critical word. Silent approval? Either way, he knew where he was heading. Even while he was killing last chances and brain cells, he’d have those talks with himself, ones with orders like “Man up” and warnings like “Don’t even think about it,” until he thought about it. Then the next day’s “Never do that again.”