I’m composing this week’s column in a bit of a daze because I just returned from my annual pilgrimage to Fight Club.
What is Fight Club, you ask? Well, I can’t tell you that, because the first rule is that you don’t talk about Fight Club. But I can tell you what it’s not: It’s not a half-brilliant, half-moronic movie with Brad Pitt and Ed Norton. It’s not a cult, a gang, or a club. It’s not a drum circle. It’s not the Bohemian Grove (although there are bohemians and there is a grove). It’s not organized crime or organized religion (though it is organized—and very well—by a certain local businessman). And’s it certainly not just an excuse to drink, smoke, and eat meat for a couple days. No, Fight Club isn’t easily understood, but I can tell you one thing: Every man who walks away from Fight Club thinks of himself as the winner.
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