The golden hour


Paramedics call the first hour after an injury the “Golden Hour” for the patient. More specifically, the Golden Hour is meant to describe the importance of getting an injured patient medical care at a hospital within one hour. That vital hour is when survival potential is highest. In the world of Single-n-Lonely, this same principle can be applied to hanging out in the street when the club closes, only we call it the “Golden Hour of Stragglin’.”

You already know what the Golden Hour of Stragglin’ is about because you’ve lived it one too many times. The scenario goes something like this: you were in the club enjoying the company of a young woman whose breasts were rubbing up against you like sea lions on a beach. You had no doubt that she was coming to your place after the club closed. Wrong! As soon as the lights came on she said, “I need to powder my nose” and never came back. What really happened is that the lights came on, she took one look at you and bounced to the exit like a gazelle on the Serengeti. However it happened, you looked around like Little Bo Peep until it finally dawned on you. “Oh no, I’m going to be Single-n-Lonely all night once again.” But all is not lost.

Ahh, the sweet smell of desperation… and cheese.

Enter the Golden Hour, my son.

That’s when you go outside to hang out with the Stragglers. You are now in the land of misfit toys, all with nothing to lose and every possibility to act like a fool. This is the Golden Hour of Stragglin,’ when the desperate gather outside of bars in transient groups as if they were making hobo stew at a railroad junction. I’ve seen you in action, running around, running your mouth, running on empty.

The Golden Hour of Stragglin’ is your last chance for survival. You can save yourself for the night. It’s the last chance to rub up on something other than the love line on your palm. If you fail to find someone in the Golden Hour, you wind up at Denny’s eating a Grand Slam breakfast, smoking cigarettes with the other Single-n-Lonely night owls, hooting nonsense at each other. You love the Grand Slam breakfast