In the journal of the Brothers Goncourt, I read of a historical character described as a "fanatical revolutionary bachelor." By the Holy Cow, c'est moi, I thought... and thus this blog launch. I just celebrated my 44th birthday, and damned if lately it hasn't dawned on me that I'm a bachelor. Not "single," that hideous borrowing from the unit pricing of consumerism, but a bachelor. An unmarried male. Not a "confirmed bachelor" (wink, wink), and obviously not an "eligible bachelor." That leaves "toxic bachelor," which seems to be all the rage for the last eleven minutes or so....
But back to the Goncourts, a couple of bachelor boys themselves (poor Jules died horribly of syphilis). Being a bachelor, I read a lot. (I long ago banished the tube from my [wait for it] bachelor pad, since the device pretty much exists to slowly digest your brains, and my brains are my favorite organ.)
Actually, it was my father who nailed the title on me recently when I was making my guest bed at the Old Manse. He was impressed that I can make a bed (hell, it's all in the blanket, which covers a host of sins) and said, "After all you've been a bachelor for a long time now."
But I digress. Let me end with another Goncourt entry: referring to the now much-more-fashionable bare kitty of the female classes, Saint-Victor notes "It must look like a priest's chin." Too true! When I was a mere lad I never thought I'd get razor burn down there.