The Big Four-Oh Approaches April 15, 2007
Posted by Michael in Man Laws, Personal Experiences, Philosophy.trackback
Monday is the Pupster’s 40th birthday.
That’s right, starting tomorrow, he’s going to have to face the fact that he is actually “middle-aged.” Pretty soon, you will see him skulking through some drugstore, looking to buy his first nose hair trimmer. From there, it’s all downhill.
So, raise a glass to the Pupster on his birthday, and stop by to wish him well.
This event just cries out for another one of my excellent musical selections. Here’s a tune dedicated to the Pupster:
I wasn’t crazy about 40.
47 was the best ever.
In my life, I have not been happier, healthier, or more content.
Just been a darn good year I suppose. 40 could have been that, and I sure hope it is for the Pupster.
Fuck you! 40 itsn’t middle aged. Life begins at 40! I fully expect to live to 110 so it ain’t happening yet.
YOB: 1967
I’m a 1967 baby too. I still have 6 or so month before it’s all over.
Happy Birthday, Pupster.
(I dislike birthdays, myself. I pretend not to, though, because I don’t want to seem like a grump.)
Hubby is in his forties and his birthdays are getting more and more austere.
This was his IM message to me last year on his birthday:
So you run and you run to catch up with the sun but it’s sinking
Racing around to come up behind you again.
The sun is the same in a relative way but you’re older,
Shorter of breath and one day closer to death.
Sincerely, he’s a lot more fun the other 364 days of the year.
Oh, and Happy Birthday Pupster!
Thanks for the link Michael! And thanks to everyone for the kind words of…err..encouragement.
If y’all really love me, you’d buy me this…
It is 40 years old, too.
Be sure and check in at Pupster tomorrow, I’ll be live-commenting my birthday drinking, with pictures! (And whining, rending garments, sobbing…etc.)
Happy birthday Pupster. Hop in the new SUV, grab the wheel, put the pedal to the metal and do some donuts. Just for the hell of it.
Every year is getting shorter, never seem to find the time
Plans that either come to naught or half a page of scribbled lines
Hanging on in quiet desperation is the english way
The time is gone, the song is over, thought Id something more to say
Roger Waters is playing at SummerFest this year. Rumor has it he’s going to do the entire DSotM album as half of the show.
This was his IM message
How intimate.
Rumor has it he’s going to do the entire DSotM album as half of the show.
Been there, done that. Wanker.
Don’t start, WP.
Been there, done that. Wanker.
Rumor has it that that’s *exactly* why he’s doing it. lol! You can bet its going to be spectacular.
Gather ye roses while ye may,
Old Time is quick a-flyin’.
And this same flower that smiles today
Tomorrow may be dyin’.
That glorious lamp of heaven, the sun
The higher it’s a-gettin’,
The sooner will its race be run,
The near it’s to settin’.
That love is best which is the first
When youth and blood are warmer.
And having been spent, the worse, and worst
Times, still succeed the former.
Then be not coy, but use your time,
And while ye may, go marry,
For having but once lost your prime,
Ye may forever tarry.
(from memory, so please forgive any mistakes. I don’t google – I’m all about the love.)
I was just effing around madam.
Believe me if all those endearing young charms,
which I gaze on so fondly today
were to change by tomorrow, and fleet in my arms,
like fairy gifts fading away,
thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art,
let thy loveliness fade as it will,
and around the dear ruin each wish of my heart
would entwine itself verdantly still.
It is not while beauty and youth are thine own,
nor thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear,
that the fervor and faith of a soul can be known,
to which time will but make thee more dear;
no, the heart that has truly loved never forgets,
but as truly loves on to the close,
as the sun flower turns on her god, when he sets,
the same look which she turned when he rose.
from memory. 1979.
*blushes*
What have we here laddie? Mischevious scribblings? A secret code? Noo. Poems no less! Peoms everybody! The laddie reckons himself a Poet!
Money get back.
I’m all right, Jack.
Keep your hands off my stack.
New car, caviar,
Four star daydream.
I think I’ll buy me a football team.
Absolute RUBBISH laddie! Smacks Dave with ruler
Now, get on with your work!
Money, get back.
I’m all right jack keep your hands off of my stack.
Money, its a hit.
Dont give me that do goody good bullshit.
Im in the high-fidelity first class traveling set
And I think I need a lear jet.
Yeah thats 40 in dog years right? So he’s what about to turn 8 or something.
And after awhile
You can work on points for style
A club tie, a firm handshake
A sudden look in the eye and an easy smile
You have to be trusted
By the people that you lie to
So that when they turn their backs on you
You’ll get the chance to put the knife in
And in the end you’ll pack up
Fly down south
Hide your head in the sand
Just another
Sad old man
All alone and dying of cancer
Also from memory, so apologies if I screwed it up.
The clock of life is wound but once,
And no man has the power
To tell just when the hands will stop
At late or early hour.
The present only is our own,
So live, love, toil with a will,
Place no faith in “Tomorrow,”
For the Clock may then be still.
There once was a lady from Exeter
So pretty that men craned their necks at her.
And then the more brave
Would smile and wave
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
The distinguishing marks of their sex at her.
Ladies and gentlmen, rejoice! I am no longer sober.
Roger Waters is playing at SummerFest this year. Rumor has it he’s going to do the entire DSotM album as half of the show.
Roger Waters eats dog turds. He can’t do DSotM by himself, that is a Pink Floyd album, not a Roger Waters album.
Gilmour: True dat.
Mason: Right on brotha!
Wright: Word.
Happy birthday. I just hope things go well and that people don’t treat you rough tomorrow.
Okay, *ahem*
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
Pupster is 40,
Happy Birthday, foo’!
where’s the IB wimmins at?
love to say hello
oh wait, there’s a nice Deb.
evenin dearie
From insty, who’s pretty good at this sorta snark.
Actually, I haven’t enjoyed premarital sex since 1994. But I enjoyed it a lot up to then!
usually I just smile, but that actually made laugh.
Thanks to MM, found this very telling judgement of the lie behind “troop supports“
thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art,
let thy loveliness fade as it will,
and around the dear ruin each wish of my heart
would entwine itself verdantly still.
Well Dave, if I made you shed tears earlier tonight you’ve returned the favor.
aw shucks. can’t take any credit for Thomas Moore’s insights. He captured it though, didn’t he? To be that loved.
buncha poets in here tonight.
sweet.
I’m not a poet.
huh. I inadvertently started off love poems by quoting a stupid cavalier poem about getting old…I’m not a big fan of the cavalier poets, though the lines “I could not love thee, Dear, so much/Loved I not Honour more” go a long way to redeem them.
imo, if you want a love poem, you want this:
Even now
If I see in my soul the citron-breasted fair one
Still gold-tinted, her face like our night stars,
Drawing unto her; her body beaten about with flame,
Wounded by the flaring spear of love,
My first of all by reason of her fresh years,
Then is my heart buried alive in snow.
Even now
If my girl with lotus eyes came to me again
Weary with the dear weight of young love,
Again I would give her to these starved twins of arms
And from her mouth drink down the heavy wine,
As a reeling pirate bee in fluttered ease
Steals up the honey from the nenuphar.
Even now
If I saw her lying all wide eyes
And with collyrium the indent of her cheek
Lengthened to the bright ear and her pale side
So suffering the fever of my distance,
Then would my love for her be ropes of flowers, and night
A black-haired lover on the breasts of day.
Even now
My eyes that hurry to see no more are painting, painting
Faces of my lost girl. O golden rings
That tap against cheeks of small magnolia leaves,
O whitest so soft parchment where
My poor divorcèd lips have written excellent
Stanzas of kisses, and will write no more.
Even now
Death sends me the flickering of powdery lids
Over wild eyes and the pity of her slim body
All broken up with the weariness of joy;
The little red flowers of her breasts to be my comfort
Moving above scarves, and for my sorrow
Wet crimson lips that once I marked as mine.
Even now
They chatter her weakness through the two bazaars
Who was so strong to love me. And small men
That buy and sell for silver being slaves
Crinkle the fat about their eyes; and yet
No Prince of the Cities of the Sea has taken her,
Leading to his grim bed. Little lonely one,
You clung to me as a garment clings; my girl.
Even now
I love long black eyes that caress like silk,
Ever and ever sad and laughing eyes,
Whose lids make such sweet shadow when they close
It seems another beautiful look of hers.
I love a fresh mouth, ah, a scented mouth,
And curving hair, subtle as a smoke,
And light fingers, and laughter of green gems.
Even now
I remember that you made answer very softly,
We being one soul, your hand on my hair,
The burning memory rounding your near lips:
I have seen the priestesses of Rati make love at moon fall
And then in a carpeted hall with a bright gold lamp
Lie down carelessly anywhere to sleep.
Even now
I mind the coming and talking of wise men from towers
Where they had thought away their youth. And I, listening,
Found not the salt of the whispers of my girl,
Murmur of confused colours, as we lay near sleep;
Little wise words and little witty words,
Wanton as water, honied with eagerness.
Even now
I mind that I loved cypress and roses, dear,
The great blue mountains and the small grey hills,
The sounding of the sea. Upon a day
I saw strange eyes and hands like butterflies;
For me at morning larks flew from the thyme
And children came to bathe in little streams.
Even now
I know that I have savoured the hot taste of life
Lifting green cups and gold at the great feast.
Just for a small and a forgotten time
I have had full in my eyes from off my girl
The whitest pouring of eternal light.
I just thought of something. Maybe you should rent chimps in tuxedos for your party.
Just sayin’
Even now
Dang, Mrs. Peel, that was pretty intense.
Next Mrs. Peel’s going to regale us with some “vegetable love.”
O I’m being eaten by a boa constrictor
A boa constrictor
A boa constrictor
O I’m being eaten by a boa constrictor
And I don’t like it one bit.
O no, it’s up to my toe!
O gee, it’s up to my knee!
O my, it’s up to my thigh!
O fiddle, it’s up to my middle!
O heck, it’s up to my neck!
O dread, it’s up to my mpphhhhthh…
Shel Silverstein (from memory)
Vaster than empires, and more sloooow!