Noble Savage Chic

Out for an evening stroll in the neighborhood, I came upon a curious sight, one that made me wonder if I was experiencing a waking nightmare.

A lone, thirty-something individual bustled toward me. He had straggly, dirty hair tied in a loose man bun and a stubbly beard. He wore pajamas and flip-flops, and he intermittently dragged on a joint while animatedly talking to himself.

Momentarily wary, I thought of moving to the other side of the street to avoid the possibility of attracting his attention, let alone making eye contact with him. I decided against changing course—not out of fear that it might divert his attention from his rapt conversation with himself, which did not seem to be going well, nor did I suffer from the delusion that I retained the physical prowess necessary to outrun him.

I simply remembered it was 2025, where what was once crazy is now “noble savage chic.”