Tuesday, June 10, 2008

Wherein the Lead is Buried In the Lead

Tomorrow marks the beginning of my 41st year outside the womb. Still cold and chilly. I have been told by my confederates, those whose odometers have already turned over, that turning 40 caused them to reflect on their lives... what a waste they'd made of them. They warned me: you too will experience this wave of unease as you reflect on the paucity of sound decision-making your history will disclose. You will buy a motorcycle and ride it with me to Starbucks for a diet latte where we will meet a passel of nubiles and then tattoo Cher and Gregg Allman on our buttocks while listening to the triumphant yet wholly misunderstood strains of Rick Astley. I'm never going to let you down, p-man. Neverrr!

To that, I must say, no thank you. No thank you, I said, as I ran towards my sensible compact car and drove off quietly and with very poor acceleration listening to the largely overlooked Aereogramme* and looking forward to seeing Mo who is as I type setting up my birthday celebrations which will include a night at a fine waterfront hotel tomorrow and a largish gathering here on Friday. And the chocolate wasabi cake I love so well. Mmm.

Of course, I am not immune to the introspection of which I was forewarned. My mom gave me a photo album of which I am the subject. Oh, the 80s and 90s were one long bad hair day. (On the positive side, I was thin. With the hair, I looked like a chimney brush with wire-rimmed glasses.)

I have found myself considering more serious errors in judgment both past and present. For one thing, I can seldom pick a winner. For example, from that show "Bosom Buddies", I pegged Peter Scolari for big things! Tom Who? Another error: Andrew Ridgely. Fucking asshat, I thought he had the skills! One consolation: Wopat v Schneider. No-one wins and nobody cares. I also imagined Federer might take Roland Garros one of these years.

So, as you can see, I am one foot from a Ducati and a bimbette. Ot maybe a Vespa and a ripe cantaloupe.

Aged but not cured,


* My GP recommended their final album to me. He was, um, examining me as he whispered their name... admiring my tattoo of Gregg Allman. Do me a favour on my birthday and buy this album. Do the band a favour. Be the person to buy the 23rd copy copy in Canada!



Anonymous cheesefairy said...

I will lurch past my attempts to picture an Allman tat on the rear of someone I have never met and simply wish you a very happy birthday with very little in the way of unwanted nonsense.

10:44 a.m.  
Blogger CroutonBoy said...

Holy crap, dude...happy birthday! You're OLD. Here's to another year of slouching towards Gomorrah

10:51 a.m.  
Blogger nonlineargirl said...

Happy Birthday old man!

1:41 p.m.  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

ARGHHHHHHH! What's up with the photo illustration? It burns. IT BURNS!

Happy Birthday. You are old. Or at least: older than me. And that's what counts.

I too thought highly of Peter Scolari and NOT Tom Hanks. But I also predicted that Cyndi Lauper AND Cory Hart would out last Madonna and Bryan Adams (respectively) -- so what do I know?

Now can you scan and share some of these long haired skinny glory days photos? Please.

4:20 p.m.  
Blogger Mad said...

Happy Birthday, p-man. C'mon over here while I tussle your hair, young man.

7:11 a.m.  
Blogger kittenpie said...

happy birthday! It's a shame you're likely no longer on chimney sweep duty, or I'd totally hire you.

And me? My biggest instances of poor decision making (actually, pretty much all instances of poor decision making) are all about things I did NOT do, but I suppose regret is regret, even if you don't look back on stupid moves but rather not enough moves.

And Alpha - Cyndi Lauper TOTALLY should have lasted. Girlfriend is insanely talented. Too bad she got branded all quirky and novelty.

1:17 a.m.  

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