Christina Ricci and Reading Nietzsche: The Gay Science of Birthdays

In a few minutes, my ass will be 35 years old. That being the case, I have spent this last evening being 34 reading selected works from German philosophers, munching on a pan of brownies, accompanied by a whole pot of coffee, a half-a-pack of cigarettes, all-the-while watching Addams Family Values outta the corner of my one good eye.

Here’s some quotes I’ve been pondering - taken, of course, from some dreary Deutschlander dudes and a duo of disturbingly direct dames:

-- Oh, what lies there are in kisses.

-- Whatever tears one may shed, in the end one always blows one's nose.

In other words, my head hurts, my heart aches, my spirit is lively and I gotta kick-ass buzz on top of it all.

For some reason, I have not found this birthday to be particularly joyous. I normally celebrate every day of my birthday week in grand style, but for some reason, I can’t find much to be happy about today.

I take that back – I talked to my mother earlier, who made me laugh when she said, “Robbie, I do not understand why a man wearing a black suit would wear a blue tie and a brown hat.” Me, neither, mom...me neither.

There’s a whole lot about this life I just don’t grasp sometimes. Maybe that’s why I turn to compulsive Googling, chocolate, coffee and cigarettes on days like these. Knowing (statistically speaking) that I’m half-way through my life, one would think that I might approach my impending birthday with a renewed sense of self-disciple rather than vituperative vigor, but you know what?

Fuck it.

Tomorrow, my ass is gonna have soul food for lunch and then I’m heading on over to the recently rehabbed Playboy Club (under new management and sadly, sans-bunnies) for dinner. Gimme some grease and some cornbread, followed up with an evening drenched in nostalgia and just slightly risqué impropriety.

It’s craven. It’s self-indulgent. It’s borderline self-destructive!!!!

Well...mostly...

Fuck it...not really.

These days, my ass will not be staying out too late – I gotta work on Wednesday. The only sauce I’ll be hitting will be on some smothered chicken (if it's on the menu). And if I eat too much at lunch, I’ll probably just have a salad and some cottage cheese for dinner.

To quote a certain Angry Black Bitch: Fuck it! Fuck it! Fuck it all again!

Maybe that’s what’s making me oh-so-surly today. Somedays, I miss a Bitch's nine-to-five company. Some days, I just miss my youth. Even when I feel the need to carry-on, the will to carry-through seems much more important. With increasing frequency, I’m finding myself understanding what ABB told me a long time ago that excuses for bad behavior are just that…excuses.

Is your glass half full of excuses, half full of regrets, Rob Thurman?

Or is it, truth-be-told - mostly full of Brita, with a dash of Metamucil, just to keep things regular?

Getting old sucks, kids – but it sure beats the alternative. And by that I don’t mean death, I mean Joan Rivers.

Happy birthday to me, I guess. And goodnight to you, too.

I gotta get to bed.

Lord knows I won’t be worth a shit tomorrow if I don’t get some rest and my fiber tonight.