Wise and foolish alike reach birthdays and look back on life lived, both well and not so much, and into the pointless abyss of hopes left unrealized. I’m no exception, but what’s best to say now? A mosquito buzzes around seeking blood. Scotch slides down the throat and imbues with a gutteral, undeniable truth. I was once attached to my mother via the belly button, but I’m nobody’s baby now. { Cheers, Nick Cave. } My face, bearded and weathered after a decent thirty-seven years, is not quite the face of my great-great-grandfather, nor is it the face of some future grandchildren, but these eyes, man, they burn with fucking starfire! Getting old is of little concern when merged cheerfully with the magnificent cosmic frolic. For shit’s sake, spare the dramatics, it’s time to dance.

DANCE DANCE DANCE!