I'll be 36 for another hour...

Yes, that's right. I am about to turn 37. Tomorrow (4 June) is my birthday. I am getting older, which kind of bites, but is, as they say, "better than the alternative." (Unless the aletrnative is living forever in some sort of Peter Pan-style Neverland, where one remains mid-20's in perpetuity. That could be nice.)

Anyway, I decided I would spend the last hour of my 36th year doing something I love...writing. This post will most likely be somewhat lengthy, rambling, and intermittently interesting. I can't promise cohesion of plot or even linear thought. Read at your own risk.

I spent a few hours this afternoon with my mother, which was very nice. We went shopping and stopped in at the World Market, which is sort of an importer's warehouse-ish "everything store." I, of course, wound up in the British food section, and eventually (with some help from Mum) found several tiny jars of Devonshire Clotted Cream. For those who have not tasted clotted cream, ignore the name. It sounds disgusting, which even those of us who love it will freely admit. When spread on a scone or shortbread cracker,however, it tastes beyond delicious. I didn't even wait to get home...I spread some on a cookie and dug in. Although my body was at the Galleria, my taste buds were at Harrod's. The best way to describe the taste is...well...just to say that it tastes British. That's the highest compliment I can give, and the only one that fits. Of course, that really doesn't describe the taste, so I'll do my best and describe it as a slightly sweet cream-cheesy-buttery-whipped-cream-icing-ish taste. Good stuff.

That taste took me away to London just as effectively as What's Up? took me to Manteo. (If you don't know what the hell that last sentence means, read the post from a few days ago titled What's Up?.) It's interesting that I would have two experiences of such a nature so close together in time. I suppose taste is another great memory trigger. Smell certainly is...if clotted cream tastes British, deisel fuel smells British. Any time I smell deisel fuel, it smells like Trafalgar Square...all the traffic helping to create a very specific (but not unpleasant) eau de metrop.

Twenty minutes into the hour, and I haven't yet started to ramble beyond all hope. This is a good sign.

I have been wrestling a lot with death lately. (No, I'm not, to my knowledge, dying.) Actually, that's the problem...none of us are "dying" in the sense of progressing in an orderly, predictable manner towards a specific and scheduled demise. It's all so random...the teenage kid in perfect health drops dead for no reason, while an octegenarian proudly attributes his longevity to drinking, smoking, and enjoying a high-cholesterol diet...a child is murdered and dies at 10 while another person dies in a car crash at 95...and so forth. It's the sheer randomness that I find so terrifying, yet oddly intriguing. There's an old Southernism, "you can't take the devil to the ground lest you got a hold of him first." That is exactly what makes death the rat-bastard that it is. You can't get a hold of something that follows no real pattern. (Okay, yes, as someone gets older, the likelihood of death increases, but the actual "when and how" are still capricious to say the least.)

Onward, onward...we're at the half-hour, and it's time to get on to cheerier subjects.

I saw the tail end of a news report on the Democratic Presidential Debates. I am holding my breath, but I honestly believe Hillary can get the nomination if she doesn't make any major blunders. My guess at this point is that it'll come down to Hillary vs. Rudy. As much as I hate to say it...I'm afraid she'd lose. Rudy is gonna ride that 9/11 train for all it's worth, plus he's the one Republican in the race who is completely detatched from Bush.We may have some hope that Rudy's famous temper will flare at the wrong time, and he'll be the new Howard Dean...aaaaaarrrrrghhh!

Hillary can beat John McCain or Mitt Romney. Bill Richardson should just go ahead and concede at the Republican Convention if he happens to win the nomination (unlikely.) Not sure who among the dems could beat Rudy at his best...maaaaaaaaybe John Edwards, but he'd have to play up the Kennedyesque resemblance to the hilt. If anything, Rudy is less attractive than Nixon, so maybe that would give Edwards an added edge. Personally, I think a Clinton/Edwards ticket could be formidable. It would be like having the second comings of Bill Clinton and JFK. (We should all be so lucky...)

A quarter to it, as Scrooge would say. I'll be 36 and writing for 15 more minutes.

Kelly Ripa really is hot. Just thought I'd mention that.

My childhood superhero fascination has been mildly re-ignited with the new Spider-Man and Fantastic Four sequels at theatres. I haven't seen either of the movies, but the surrounding advertising blitz has kept the characters in my face for several weeks. These were my two favorite comic books as a kid, so at least I recognized the costumes. It's interesting to me how sequels/recreations change the whole frame of pop culture reference...for instance, if someone mentions the character of Spider-Man, I immediately think of the comic books of the 1970's, while someone in his 50s would probably think of the original comics. A kid of 10 would probably think Tobey Maguire of the films. All three of us would be correct, given our frame of reference.

Five minutes of 36-hood left.

I really doubt that most "firsts" are remembered in equal proportion...I mean, I remember my first kiss, first car, first job, etc., but I couldn't tell you who my first best friend was, or what I ate for dinner on my first date, or the name of my first pet. I'm sure there are people who remember the exact "firsts" I have forgotten, and vice-versa.

One minute...okay, song lyrics...

"Forty-Seven Ginger-Headed Sailors"

Now there's a good ship, HMS Cock-Robin,
On her home trip. Up and down she's bobbin'
Well, the sea is so rough, the crew is so tough,
They're all fed up and say that they've had more than enough.

And then her father, he's an able seaman
And they call him Red-Haired Tom.
He wired to say "I'll meet you,
And with your friends I'll greet you,"
And who'd you think he's got a message from?

Forty-seven ginger-headed sailors,
Coming home across the briny sea.
When the anchor's weighed and the journey's made,
We'll start the party with a
"Me hoady hearty!"

Forty-seven ginger-headed sailors,
You can bet you're going to hear them when they hail us!
An old maid down in Devon
Said "My idea of heaven
Is forty-seven ginger-headed sailors."

( From the BBC Television series Jeeves And Wooster. )

Wow...I've been 37 for 4 minutes. So far, so good... :-)

FLT3