"They Say It's My Birthday"

How does the Beatles song go ... "Gonna have a good time ... Yes, I'm going to a party, party ..." Oh, my God! Half of the Beatles are dead and the other half get let out of Nursing Homes hopefully on the same day other Last Quarter Denizens -- those, that is, who still want to hear them perform "Memorial Concerts" for dead Beatles -- get day-passes to sniff-in the dope-smells of their adolescent years at the concerts.

Well, as far as I know, M didn't get us tickets to go listen to Ringo and Paul (I wouldn't be a Fourth Quarter type if I didn't rattle off: "Do you know what concert tickets cost these days to hear Sir Paul sing in suspenders and Depends?" ...  You say I've gone off the Deep-End! OK ... I'm too old to argue) and I know of no parties for either myself or my 6 year old Alter Ego, Melmo, about whom my youngest grandchild opined: "Melmo's not Real; he just lives in a Stump." Not quite 5 year old C-A was referring to the 7 foot Totem I carved in the back yard when Melmo was just turning 4. 'Melmo ... Big Boy, now.'

No. No parties. No parties, as far as I know. I did survive the sort-of race car driving experience two days ago that I mentioned in an earlier posting. M took pictures of me on the track driving like an Old Man with Colitis running to a roadside bathroom ... Old Man goes "zoom-zoom." There was a guy next to me quite often, Tom ... about half my age with an obviously uncontrolled appetite who was trying to prove that we could still get killed even if it wasn't a real race. When Tom's my age, I suspect he won't fit into a panel van. There IS justice in the World.

Well. Maybe that was my birthday present from my older son, C-A's Dad (Oldest spawn produces youngest grand-spawn ... I'll leave it to the imagination to figure out his game) ... same C-A who thinks Melmo isn't real. Or maybe it was his way of limiting the probabilities that he's gonna have to get me another present.

Old Man Bitching ... OK, I'll stop.

On a positive note, I got what couldn't be much better of a birthday present. D, who married a dear friend (also, D ... indeed, they go by the handle D&D) about 20 years ago sent me a note: 'Ah! You're the author of the Old Fart Blog. Luv it! Read it all the time.'

Well, thanks D ... I needed that.

Maybe D

Will agree

Some time

To post

That would be

Fine.

She has all the bona fidies. She's Fourth Quarter. Just got back from France, i.e., she's still Playing in this Quarter. And she's married to someone who in my counting of 20-year-long quarters is still Playing in Overtime. Pretty cool! And, at least one person must be getting tired of my painfully tired humor ... besides M.

OK. Enough; I could take a nap, now. It is after 5:30 AM ... There is a house-rule never to nap before 6:00, but it is my Birthday.

So, with a grateful nod to M who has stuck by me for 49+ years and has been kind enough not to show me pics of me in a racing helmet (maybe, if I'd've been wearing Spandex), this orphan is gonna go to his office (Oh, I'm already there) to work and then go hunting for a gluten, dairy and sugar-free birthday cake over which candles can burn ... in part to celebrate me ... in part to commemorate the years that my youngest learned of the joys of good humor watching Mork and Mindy.

In Memory of Robin Williams (1951-2014) 

who stopped Playing much too soon.