(Or, How I Stopped Worrying and Learned to Love Python)
THE MID-LIFE CODE CRISIS
THE MIDLIFE CODE CRISIS:
(Or, How I Stopped Worrying and
Learned To Love Python)
Fueled by sheer determination, strategic nootropics, and just a hint of existential dread, one man embarks on a journey to rewrite his future—one line of Python at a time.
CHAPTER TWO: CHARLEY DON’T SURF
“If you’re going to survive that stretch of asphalt lunacy, you’d better have a fast reflex, precise control, and zero hesitation. And as I nearly found out the hard way, there’s no “almost” in motorcycle physics.”
Fun Fact:
The phrase charley horse—used to describe a muscle cramp—allegedly dates back to 1880s baseball, when players likened their leg spasms to an old, limping horse named Charley who worked the ballpark.
Charley? Say it ain’t so!
Therefore, I believe Charley’s ghost is the one who stormed into my bedroom at exactly the witching hour, hellbent on revenge, and inflicted such a violent cramp in my right calf that I woke up convinced an actual horse was standing on me.
Now, here’s where you might start to question my sanity—not for accusing a famous ghost horse of assault, but for how long Charley’s name stayed at the top of my suspect list. The reason? Lack of a better answer.
I’d already been guzzling water like it was my job.
I even drank those neon-colored Gatorades I hate.
I’d seen joggers in Central Park swear by Pedialyte, so I found the flavor that sucked the least and carried it to work like a damn security blanket.
I even fell for the “French vitamins = instant health” logic and dropped real money on some overpriced, high-vibe electrolyte powder.
And yet, at exactly 3 a.m., I still found myself crippled by a charley horse from hell.
So what went wrong?
If I trusted the product, then logic points to environmental factors.
Or… Charley really was out for blood.
The Perfect Storm
A charley horse at 3 a.m. is annoying. A charley horse in my world is a problem.
A) My job is physically & mentally demanding.
Let’s be honest—fun jobs are easy to love. But love or not, work is work, and high mileage is high mileage.
Steven Spielberg, in an old behind-the-scenes interview, once said that his most critical pre-production ritual was:
1. Hit the gym.
2. Lift like hell.
3. Prepare for battle.
The Grocery Getter.
B) I ride a motorcycle.
The FDR at rush hour is not a road.
It’s a psychological experiment in how quickly one human can learn to despise all other humans.
If you’re going to survive that stretch of asphalt lunacy, you’d better have a fast reflex, precise control, and zero hesitation. And as I nearly found out the hard way, there’s no “almost” in motorcycle physics.
C) I play video games.
Somewhere out there, an old TED Talk once compared active-duty Navy SEALs with elite Call of Duty players.
• In multiple categories, their reaction times were nearly indistinguishable.
• In some cases, the gamers were faster.
There can be only one.
Which made me think: if playing a game can train split-second survival skills, then what else could be optimized?
And, let’s be real—this wasn’t just about survival.
I was one of those kids who walked into a movie theater in 1977, saw Star Wars for the first time, and walked out convinced I was going to fly an X-Wing one day.
A younger me about to discover something good…(concept)
It wasn’t until I discovered women that I set that dream aside.
But now? I see no practical reason not to fly one.
Which made me think: if playing a game can train split-second survival skills, then what else could be optimized?
The Solution Was Obvious.
A turbocharged, gamer-tested, SEAL-team-certified supplemental supplement from my exact peer group.
All I had to do was find a guy my age, working a physically brutal job, who also had the mental endurance and reflexes sharp enough to ride a motorcycle every day and get home in one piece.
Did the Mayor of Easytown just hand me the key to the city?
Concept & AI-Rendered Art by Athena (In collaboration with Keith DeCristo)
Chapter One: Rolling on a new take.
-Because here’s the thing about Christmas movies: they don’t film in December. By the time those heartwarming, twinkling-light-filled moments hit your screen, the production crew has long since packed up and moved on. Holiday specials have to be shot months in advance, and this one, in all its tinsel-clad glory, was being filmed in the dead heat of August.
Welcome to chapter one: The Midlife Code Crisis
(Or, How I Stopped Worrying and Learned to Love Python)
Our story begins on the set of a Hallmark Channel Christmas movie. The effects department had conjured a flawless, swirling snowstorm. The art team transformed the set into a holiday wonderland, decking every storefront and lamp post in festive cheer. Wardrobe had carefully curated a lineup of winter coats, scarves, and boots—each ensemble a masterclass in cozy, Christmas-card perfection.
It would have been like any other night doing the job I love—if not for the brutal, oppressive heat.
Because here’s the thing about Christmas movies: they don’t film in December. By the time those heartwarming, twinkling-light-filled moments hit your screen, the production crew has long since packed up and moved on. Holiday specials have to be shot months in advance, and this one, in all its tinsel-clad glory, was being filmed in the dead heat of August.
The humidity was suffocating. The air was thick and unmoving, as if some vengeful deity had decided to smite our production with a weaponized heatwave. Every crew member was drenched. The actors—swaddled in layers of winter wool—were on the verge of heatstroke. It felt like we were filming inside a malfunctioning sauna.
Not a fan of those crazy colored sports drinks.
I’d been guzzling water all night, trying to stay ahead of the dehydration. I’d even choked down those neon-colored Gatorades I hate. But no amount of fluids could stop what happened next.
A sharp, searing pain shot through my right leg. I barely had time to register it before my knee buckled.
A PA rushed to my side, grabbing my arm. “You okay?”
I nodded, more out of habit than honesty. The pain was vicious. I tried to stand, but my leg wasn’t interested in cooperating.
The Muscle Cramp from O.U.C.H.
“You need to stay hydrated, pal,” the PA said, handing me another bottle of water.
I wanted to tell him that hydration wasn’t the problem—that I’d been drinking more water than humanly possible—but I just nodded again and took the bottle.
That’s when one of the Teamsters, a guy in his late sixties, strolled past and chuckled. “We ain’t getting any younger, pal.”
And there it was. The thing I hated hearing.
Not the oasis I needed. (concept)
I forced a smile, pretending I didn’t want to hurl my water bottle at him. Instead, I gritted my teeth and pushed myself up onto my feet, each step an act of defiance. My knee screamed in protest, but I kept moving, fueled by something far stronger than the pain—resentment.
Because I’d heard it too many times.
“You’re getting older.”
“This job takes a toll.”
“Time is undefeated.”
It was always the same tired refrain, as if aging was a pre-scripted tragedy, an unchangeable fact, like gravity or taxes. But I refused to buy into that. Injuries, fatigue, the slow creeping entropy of time itself—they were all just systems, and if there was one thing I knew about systems, it was that they could be hacked.
I just needed to figure out how.
“You realize time is your enemy, right?”
Joe was leaning against a cable cart, watching me limp back to set. He was an Army veteran, a fellow lighting tech, and a guy I’d known for years. He lit a cigarette and handed me one.
“Do you really think you’re the first guy to dream about stopping it?”
I exhaled a slow breath, lit my cigarette, and met his gaze.
“I don’t have to stop time,” I said, rolling my sore knee absentmindedly. “I just need to change the way it defines us.”
Joe smirked, shaking his head. “And how the hell are you gonna do that?”
I took another drag and smiled.
I had no idea.
But I was going to find out.
And that’s how this whole thing started.
On set with Joe, bringing stories to life.
Concept & AI-Rendered Art by Athena (In collaboration with Keith DeCristo)