(Custom graphic hand rendered by Ray.)
I promise that this will be the last time I mention “40” colloquially. After this, it’s gonna be all “Age is just a state of mind in New York City. I know it’s crazy, but it’s true,” and “40 is the new black.”
No more 40 stuff after this.
But first, pictures! (Of course, permission to reprint was not sought, nor granted.)
Party trio, in repose. Except for the one on the right who looks like a Real Housewife of Orange County. But less tranny, and more hotter. (GrammarCheck is on hiatus.)
My friend, Farrah, and my dad, Pops, who sported the same three greasy fingerprints on his sweater all night, an overfilled cup of wine, and hyperactive kissy kissy face for all the ladies.
Oh, there’s Kissy Kissy Face again. Singing “Your Cheating Heart,” which he requested time and again, only to be foiled by house host Mike (left), who earlier played “American Pie” on his guitar until Satan and the guy with the pink carnation could go ahead and dry that fricking levee for all we cared.
Here’s me and Mel. I really don’t appreciate her boobs completely overshadowing mine, but I’m trying not to be petty about crap like that now that I’m 40. Still, my claw grasp tells a different story. In addition, I like this picture, because it provides a timeline of events. I’m pretty sure it was before I sang “Theme from Mahogany.” I enjoy looking back at this reminder of more halycon days pre-opening my mouth.
Me and the Bubbie, who goes by The Rock. I love him so much for planning this special celebration that I even allowed my unretouched chin to double for this picture.
There you have it. I will now commence turning 40 and three days.