Birthday

I sent this off to my Luddite parents in our first e-mail exchange. They've finally gotten on line as a means to communicate with their cyborg grandchildren. They sent me a Garfield card.

When this was taken, I don't think I'd mentioned my birthday to anyone.

Five or six years ago, birthdays in my crowd were a good excuse for a party: dinner for twelve at La Boheme or Morrimoto; keg, cocktails and crudites for a hundred; plus good tickets to See Something Great. We don't make such a big deal out of 'em anymore. For this particular subdued milestone, I was treated to an a capella rendition of "Happy Birthday" sung in the manner of Marilyn Monroe to J.F.K. I enjoyed a few beers with buddies; a nice dinner with a close friend; and a short, thickly muscled Puerto Rican guy from New Jersey (not in that order). Additionally, I treated myself to a new zip front hoodie, to keep me warm over the next twelve months.

Survived another year.
Yup.