Despite being in nearly the best shape of my life, in a few days, I’ll no longer be in my prime. Numerically at least, not for another five years.1
I took a day off to make a three-day weekend, and will spend the days doing things I love: weightlifting, eating wonderful food—like the lamb shawarma and falafel I picked up at a local gas station2—visiting book stores and record stores, birding, hiking, riding my mountain bike, drinking peaty scotch whisky and bitter craft beer3, listening to music4, and reading.5
And making footnotes!6
I’m publishing this on a Friday so that I still feel compelled to get my post about Solsbury Hill together. I’m very grateful for you readers, and I feel that I’ve been lax lately. I posted a Note or two to little fanfare; I like that they aren’t instant gratification, and linger. The Serviceberry that I planted has borne fruit! Delicious fruit. Tart, sweet, and crunchy. The birds are missing out, because the branch is too weak to hold them, I think. But they are a gift, and I left many for the birds, when they find them.
It’s my first birthday without my mother, which weighs on my mind in odd ways. I feel like I’m finally an adult. If we live long enough, we all become orphans, and maybe that’s a stage of adulthood.
I don’t have children; I don’t even have a cat anymore, but I got to parent a stranger today. A teenager changed lanes without looking and lightly bumped my car on a busy interstate.
We pulled over; she was effusively apologetic. Our cars were both Subarus and for the grace of plastic bumper cladding, I couldn’t even see where we collided. (And my car is covered in Pine Barrens dust, so she should have left some sort of mark.)
So, I shut down her apologies and said, “We’re fine. I don’t want your license, or photos… I want you to relax in your car before you get back on the highway, and remember to be careful.”
I went so far to remind her that her car has little yellow lights on the side mirrors that tell you when there’s a car in the lane next to you. Not in a condescending way, but a caring way. I was more concerned with her getting into a worse crash because she was worked up, than I was about damages. I was also worried about us getting hit in the shoulder, because that’s a thing with distracted drivers these days. So I wished her the best, told her to please be more careful, and not to worry: she got lucky, and she should chill out a bit before pulling into traffic.
And then I sped off like a Mad Max stuntman, because that’s how I learned to survive, driving in New Jersey and New York City in a Mini Cooper.
London? Daunting, because of the cameras and wrong side of the road, but a cakewalk. Los Angeles? The eight-lane freeways are spicy, but done that. In the rain. DC can be interesting, with its angles. Scotland’s one lane country roads were a breeze, once I remembered to pull off to the left and not the right. Amsterdam with the bicycles? I didn’t kill anybody, despite Google sending me down a pedestrian path.7 Naples and Tokyo looked like fun, but I was only a passenger. I think India and some parts of Southeast Asia would be challenging, but in Glasgow we nearly drove into a football parade and managed to survive.8
That was my adventure today. I’m enjoying my favorite beer, listening to good music…and wondering why I would let two billionaire bozos make me want to give up my Lounge Pit and leave the country, when with any luck, they’ll be deported and/or in federal prison before my next birthday.9
Let’s drink to that…
Forgive a thirsty old man. That’s Ben Nevis in the background. And I’m wearing pants.
The mathematically inclined can guess my age within 20 years from that little joke. Here’s a hint: I’m not turning 74.
Not counting the wizened hot dogs spinning on the torture rack at corporate slop holes, if you find a private restaurant operating at a gas station, or outside a hardware store, you will be in for a pleasant surprise. This one was the Pita Pocket, in a Lukoil market on Route 73 in Mount Laurel, New Jersey. I can also vouch for Rocco’s steaks, which is outside a Home Depot in Lawnside. Not in the strip mall near a Home Depot… it’s a double-wide trailer on the concrete slab between the store and the parking lot, and their cheese steak with hot Italian sausage is everything a Philly cheese steak should be, unlike the shoe leather wit wiz you get at the Pat’s and Geno’s tourist traps.
Heady Topper by Alchemist Brewing in Vermont, and Bruidladdich Octomore 15.3 whisky. In some ways, I go to extremes.
Interpol, Jonathan Richman, Japanese Breakfast, Fleet Foxes, Mogwai, Tunde Adebimpe.
The Last Report of the Miracles at Little No Horse by Louise Erdrich, and The Star Thrower by Loren Eiseley.
In Germany, Google Maps sent us down a pedestrian bridge to a church. Fuck you, Google.
Protip: roll down your windows, and smile and wave like you’re the Pope.
Dear God, make that my birthday present. This year.
Happy Birthday!! 🎉❤️ (a little belated)
Happy Birthday! Lamb shawarma sounds like a great birthday meal. If you ever visit Ottawa, some of the best shawarmas outside of Lebanon or so my Lebanese coworkers tell me.