Another Faltering Step Towards The Grave

Today is my birthday. Tomorrow, it will have been my birthday yesterday, and so I will be able to sing along with that one Paul Simon song that begins "Yesterday it was my birthday..." in a spirit of utter righteousness.

Before then, though, I have arranged to be propped up in a sedan chair on the porch of my favorite watering hole, there to peer through my newly-acquired old-man spectacles at indistinct objects in the middle distance and mutter obscenities to myself about the "good old days". Nubile rain-drenched co-eds, all but overcome with trepidation, will draw close to hear my oracular pronouncements, and will withdraw in disgust shortly thereafter as I leer, cackle, and fling half-empty glasses of liquor into the surrounding trees. This is going to be splendid.