Today is my birthday. I will not be saying which birthday it is. A girl needs to keep a little mystery. The approach of this event has made me highly reflective, like the burnished metal of a Ferrari.

I have had an amazing life. My parents were great. I went to a retreat once, a few years ago on the west coast, where they tried to make you confront the terrible things your parents did to you that made you the twitching pile of friendless aggression you are today. I had nothing. I had to call my sister and ask her to tell me anything they did that was less that terrific. We came up with this: once my Dad really wanted Hormel Corned Beef Hash on Saturday. He took the last can we had left and hid it behind some bags of flour so he was the only one who knew we had it, ensuring a corned beef hash kind of weekend. This is not Charles Manson here, folks. (Known fact: Charles Manson hated corned beef hash. The original writing on the wall of the first house was “Kill Hormel,” not “Kill The Pigs.” Squeaky Fromme edited it to make Charlie seem more of a Bon Vivant). (Too soon?)

Look at my life. I was a preteen when the Beatles hit; that guaranteed me an entire teen age of incredible music. My entire puberty was the Playboy era. Think of it. Before me… no Playboy. After me… Playboy. You’re welcome. Thanks to a sympathetic cashier at a local market I had access to all the latest and greatest naked women.

I worked every summer at a YMCA day camp where my primary job was teaching small kids the difference between poison ivy and poison oak (both delicious, but oak has a serrated leaf, and ivy grows in a distinctive three leaf pattern. “Leaves of three, let it be”… this was the song we learned in Connecticut when making poison oak soup), and my other job was apparently keeping track of boob growth among all the female counselors who were just hitting that wonderful, magic, switch-to-a-bikini-from-a-onesie stage of development. Fifty years later all the girls (now women) confessed they had crushes on me. Too little too late, ladies!

I went to Woodstock. I walked on the moon. My memory is getting hazy. Now that I think of it, I doubt my mother would have let me do both of those things in the same year… so I am going to go with… walking on the moon. Where I totally saw Janis Joplin and Creedence play.

I’ve had my share of bad stuff. Don’t think it was all roses and Bisquick. But it seems like everything even remotely bad brought me something good. Real “a door closes, a window opens” stuff… you know that bullshit?

I broke my leg/I learned the guitar. My parents bought me a great car that my sister crashed/I got a piece of junk that taught me how to fix a car. I flunked out of college/I moved to California and learned how to scoop ice cream and be in a band with a heroin addict. See? Windows everywhere.

I have two great, amazing kids… and now two amazing grandkids. When my grandkids get old enough I will TOTALLY let them borrow my flying car and look through my vintage Playboys. I have had several lovely wives. (The current one being the front runner, hands down)

I have lived in Connecticut (cold), California (weird), and Nashville (home). I have had something that I laughingly call a “career” and managed to watch an appropriate amount of TV while doing it! I’ve stayed away from most drugs, while maintaining an imagination second to none. I have stayed away from alcohol because it all tastes like Binaca to me. All my life my friends have tried to find a drink that will make me join in the fun, (apparently throwing up in the back seat of my car is a “blast!”), but they have failed. Black cherry soda is my vice, and that is why when I do kick it, I will top the scales at 420 lbs; but thanks to the good people at AntiGravCorp I will be as graceful as a ballerina.

Yes,¬† I have had a rip snorting life. Oh, don’t think this is me wrapping it up. I already know when I’m going to shuffle off this mortal coil. I’ve got a good forty years left, at least. On my last day, I will be waking up next to my still amazingly hot wife, Georgia, (we are still consistently “wild in the sack” though I am hoping¬† in the future they have a cooler, more Jetson-like euphemism for it…possible suggestion…”Zoinking the Potato”). I will hop in my jet car (REALLY counting on that, Toyota!) and fly to my job harvesting floating chickens. Motto: Free Range? Free EVERYTHING!! I will still have my teeth… my hair… my artificial knees will have grown back to organic joints years ago, thanks to a pill called, “I Can’t Believe They’re not Graphite,” or something. In the middle of my work shift I will take my obligatory state mandated two hour nap and drift off to the great Unknown.

Toodle-oo suckers!