I’m still laughing at all the people who kept asking me if our latest move was my “retirement.” 50 hours last week on the clock, another ten or twenty off the clock. Catered lunch for 25 on top of our biggest Saturday lunch rush, all in a kitchen the size of three bathtubs. Did I mention the cook calling in sick? Oh, and my writing gig. And two consultancies… I’m fucking exhausted and questioning my life choices.

I’m not questioning the amazingly rich array of birthdays today, as opposed to yesterday. Today’s riches include one of our spiritual forefathers; a guy who really should have had a vasectomy; a master of distribution; a king of screwball comedy; a chick who seems to have fucked EVERYBODY but me; the father of my favorite musical genre; a guy whose first name was Mister; a true piece of shit who was a worse pilot than Otto; a guy who was even worse than Christie; a guy who survived fucking Barbra Streisand; the spirit animal for Gabby Gifford; a very good player who had the misfortune of replacing the best ever; a mixed bag but a generally good guy; a complete fucking freakshow; a self-styled Smartest Guy In The World; and easily the best Supreme Court justice in my lifetime.

Links, before I run out of energy.

 

They’re not wrong.

 

Grown-ups in the room. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

 

White adjacent. Ignore.

 

Passion Play.

 

We respect and honor the press.

 

“Stop hitting yourself! Stop hitting yourself!”

 

Old Guy Music today about a Birthday Boy. It got overtaken by events after its release (2008), but still, delightful.