39

Today is my 39th birthday.

This is weird, because I don’t feel 39. Actually, I should say “this is weird … to me.” Because how many people actually feel their ages? And what does it even mean to feel one’s age? Once we pass, oh, 30, we always say, “I don’t feel X.” But how do we know what X actually feels like? Maybe 39 feels 39, which feels like 30, which feels like 25? Who the hell knows?

What I do know is this: I’m lucky. Beyond lucky. I was thinking about my life the other day, in the context of all these investment people who’ve bilked the public for billions of dollars. Give the choice, between being one of the bilkers (with the requisite yacht, BMW, vacation home, etc) and me, well, I take me. I love my wife. I love my kids. I love writing, and I love having a book on Ken O’Brien coming out in a matter of months. There are rarely days that I don’t look forward to. I’ll go to bed tonight psyched about tomorrow. I’ll go to bed tomorrow psyched about the next day. And I don’t bilk people. Ever.

Obviously, I use this blog to talk often and openly about death. I fear death, and go through lengthy stretches of being preoccupied by it. But I’d be 1,000 times less concerned about dying were I not so in love with life. That’s the catch of it all—hate life, accept death. Love life—want it to last forever.

I digress. Great birthday, great life. I’m blessed.

PS: A few random thoughts:

A. Was in Buffalo recently. Greg and Jill Murray bought us a 12-pack of something called PJ’s Crystal Beach Loganberry. It’s a drink that, literally, tastes like a Sno-Cone. In a word: Disgusting. But very kind of them to give it a shot …

B. Have started reading the new Malcolm X biography, by the late Manning Marable. Mixed emotions. The Autobiography of Malcolm X is one of my all-time favorite books, and this bio sort of dismisses that as being, well, full of shit. On the other hand, truth is truth is truth …

C. Love that the federal government is investigating whether the University of Delaware was righteous in its cutting of men’s track and cross country.

D. I was fascinated by those readers who seemed to enjoy pointing out that this week’s Quaz didn’t—in their minds—live up to past editions. I’m just wondering: Why? Why would you say that? To insult me? To insult Donald? I get criticism. But sometimes, it seems like it exists just to exist. No offense. Just saying.