Got in from the far-distant recording studio a bit later than usual,  last night (sank into bed, finally, at 2am), then woke at about 5:30am, let Beloved Wife sleep late, made Offsprung’s breakfast, accompanied Offsprung across town on public transpo to school (as ever) and was home again shortly before 9am, at which point Beloved Wife playfully blocked me from entering the kitchen. Meaning, I surmised in an instant, that despite the fact that I’m not into the folk ritual of tracking and highlighting the commonest mortal milestone, she had a little store-bought cake waiting in there for me, a little cake she was still setting up, and it was ringed with trick-shop candles sporting primary-color flames, each of which I blew out (foregoing the cake at the time, though I’m eating it as I type this) before kissing her and whispering something about wanting to take a bath first (still coated, as I was, with a light Bohemian glaze of studio ectoplasm) and then fuck Her. Took the bath, then very happily/tenderly/greedily fucked Her (listen: I find the missionary position perfectly nice and very practical, as I simply slide down to finish the pageant by licking her), snuggled after, fifteen minutes later came again (not to be indelicate) in Beloved Wife’s mouth, relishing the primitive biological contract of marriage*. But also thinking: do I have one of those things wrong with me that turns out to be useful despite being aberrant? Should Oliver Sacks regret the fact that he’s too dead to dramatize the whooping Grand Teton graphs of my case study in a 5,000-word piece for the NYer? My father was dead at 56! I’m past that marker and coming like bunnies! I’m like a manic depressive without the depressive and only occasional peaks of well-regulated (never publicly embarrassing) mania and, truth be told, my baseline is a sort of “mania” from which I’ve never crashed. Am I a new kind of socially well-adjusted psychotic or merely healthy?


After getting in from the recording studio (session last night with V., favorite bassist, who flew all the way in from Spain, for a fee that couldn’t have covered the cost of the flight and his hotel room: love) in the ink-drizzle-Berlin morning,  I emailed my 35-year-old co-producer, the rowdy Brit, the bearish prince:

Btw: fun and wondrous fact: I turned 60 on the way home!

To which he responded:

oh wow, happy birthday you mad fuck! 60 years old…. mental, you have more energy than a toddler with ADHD

What happened on the way home was this (as I wrote to old virtual chum ET soon after stepping in the door at Rancho Augustine, wet as I was):

“Just staggered home from the recording studio and turned 60 about half-way through the trip. Now, I’m not making the following tale up but I might use it fictionally (and probably, as is, on my site). At about quarter after 12, before I’d remembered it was my birthday, I was waiting for my train in the lower level of S-Bahnhof Friedrichstrasse… absent-mindedly staring at the staircase leading down from the ground level… when a familiar figure jogged down the stairs. I (thought I) instantly recognized him. For a bizarre two or three seconds, you see,  I thought it was my son, and then I thought (also bizarrely) wait… yes… it’s my birthday, isn’t it?! Is he here to surprise me? And at the moment he reached the bottom step and looked across the six-meter gap between us and made eye contact and smiled at me (briefly), which literally made me sort of jump a little, since by then I was no longer temporarily insane and realized it couldn’t possibly be him. I got a better look and realized he was a dead ringer for what my son (38) will look like at maybe 50 (well it would just be too Dickensianly neat if he looked like my son at my age, 60, wouldn’t it?)… hair graying, standing a little taller than I stand… and making a face uncannily like my son’s in his frown of concentration as he read a newspaper, or something, waiting for the train (one of three possible trains but mine/ ours was a 19-minute wait). We got on the train together, sat not far apart and about fifteen minutes later I got off the train, thoroughly amused and deeply spooked.

When my son (6,000 miles away) wishes me Happy Birthday, tomorrow, I’ll ask if he remembers his dreams from the previous night…”

Well, it’s 5am where my Son lives, as I type this, and he usually mails me during his afternoon, so it will be a few hours before we establish whether or not he was Astral Projecting in this direction last night. When we exchange emails I will remind him: avoid alcohol, cigarettes, crack, Coke, heroin, Television, High Fructose Corn Syrup, Methyl-hydrogenated Silicone, too much sugar (though that store-bought birthday cake I just snarfed was pretty good), unnecessary stress, STDs, life-force-sapping jobs, WiFi, dangerous Selfie-perches, asbestos fibers, stinging jellyfish, mad dogs, dirty Q-tips and rusty can openers. On the to-do list: marry someone you really love, spend most of your days doing what you love, and put enough strategic thinking and clever action into making those last two possibilities real, however long it takes. You have all the Time you will ever have to do it.

Listen. I’m not the guy you should come to for advice regarding money. But the other stuff?  Sure.

Put down that fucking beer. And unplug that fucking TV.





*I’ve written this before, around here: people find this strange, when I tell them, and even Beloved Wife needed time to adjust to it, but from very early on I suggested to Her that, in order to keep the romance alive (against the romance-killing death-rays-emitting Kali-armed juggernaut of parenting), we should sleep in separate beds. It works. I keep odd hours, that’s one thing (sometimes I like to get right back up out of bed at 1am and write) but, most importantly, Beloved Wife does not need to hear my snoring, nor curse me silently (affectionately) as she tries to doze through it, nor watch, in general, every last veil of mystery fall from Her husband’s too-familiar shape. That, plus making sure I do the bulk of domestic chores and allow my Wife to luxuriate sweetly in being High Maintenance:  it works. Try it, Chums Straight, Gay, Lez or Trans. Guaranteed or money back.


  1. Many happy returns, young ‘un! I was walking, precociously speaking in complete sentences, and quite possibly feeling the gum cut of emerging tooth edges when you decided it was time to face the open space.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. D! The incremental nature of reaching and then surpassing any age leaves lots of room, before and after, to commemorate the blurred event! I’ve been thinking of myself as “60” for a few years now and will be feeling 61 in a week or two, so, you’re actually still early! (But, Jeezis, imagine if you were *expected* to know and commemorate every lefty-lit-ish blogger’s birthday…! I prefer that people forget mine, freeing me to do likewise with theirs, freeing us all to relax that much more…)

      Liked by 1 person

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