Killing Off The Forties

May 29, 2011 at 11:11 am (The Easy Chair, Waxing Nostalgic)

Sounds like a full weekend from back in the day, huh? “Gotta work in three hours. Better not leave any beer behind!”

Nope, not the case. (Of forties. Ha ha.) Pretty sure I haven’t drank a forty since around 2004. This case of The Forties I’m referring to is my age.

Thirty years ago today, Freewheelin’, Phineas and I were sitting outside the Memorial Coliseum in the back of a pickup truck, listening to The Scorpions and waiting for nightfall. By the time the Judas Priest concert was over I’d be twenty years old! It was a rousing party, which continued overnight and reached as far as Kah-Nee-Ta.

Twenty years ago, I was working on 82nd Avenue at the Nationally Recognized Convenience Chain. I was due to get off early to see Ike Willis and a Zappa tribute band, but a co-worker got into a fistfight with a 350-pound black woman and it almost turned deadly. I wasn’t ‘involved’, but collateral damage can ensue. I kept my head down and didn’t get home until after closing time. There were a lot of nachos to wash off the ceiling.

My 40th birthday? It must have been one of those ‘I’m not doing anything special’ birthdays. I was in the midst of a long celibate period, so that may be why I choose not to remember. Nothing to see here. Goddammit.

Tonight I will go to work, and the first person I’ll celebrate with will be my bus driver, the Speed Reader. (She zooms between time-points and reads for 2-3 minutes parked at the stop.) Once home, I will have an average dinner and go to sleep. Big time fun, huh?

Yes, it’s just another day. I won’t be drinking. (Today or tomorrow.) The ex-wife has drunk-dialed me twice now, wishing me a happy birthday and telling me about my ‘gift’: a pint of Jack Daniels. I thanked her, and suggested she drink it for me. (Contemporary drinking buddies know how I feel about Jack Daniels. It tastes like Wild Turkey. Thrown up.) She then offered me an eighth of weed. That I could probably find a use for! And, since I’m single these days, she could probably think of a few things that would make my day better. I’m not counting on that, though.

So, the next time you hear from me, I will be a 50-year-old grown-ass man. Well, that’s half right. I’ll be fifty. That ‘grown-ass man’ part is a work in progress.

The rest of me is still seventeen-going-on-thirty.


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