48 and eleven months

1st, a PSA:

The wrapper of Columbus Dry Salami (Columbus Salami Company, South San Francisco) smells of bleach, or semen. I suggest you hang this sucker up in the cellar and let it age a bit.

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It's all about middle-age.

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Man, I'm having some serious middle-aged moments this weekend. There I was today, doing a 'chore,' and KFOG (see, I'm listening to KFOG - how middle-aged is that?) plays Magical Mystery Tour.

Oh yeah.......

roll up!

(hint, hint. or was that the beatles just being basically english? A: the walrus was paul)

for the mystery tour. rollaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhuuuuuuppp

And then there's the bridge, where they go:

"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhh.....the mystery toooo-ur."

That, my friends, is the purest dose of 1968 I could offer you.
Toooo-ur.
Say it with yer best Liverpuddlian (Schoose) accent.
As in:
She's the kynd-of-a-gal,
whew makes the neyws-o-the-wald,
yes you cud say she was atrrrac-tiv-lee-built.

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So, if you weren't alive and relatively conscious in 1968, you may still get off to the Beatles, but I doubt it's the same way I do. And, in return, I'm sure I don't get whole piles of your shit. It all evens out, in the end.

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Middle age hits me, in the form of Beatles tunes and weekend projects. We're still doing the renovation. Of course. It's geting very old. Accumulations of fuck-ups pile up. Sometimes I worry this renovation is turning into a gaudi cathedral.

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Middle age hits me, when I realize I'm feeling really OK, sitting at home, at 9:52pm, on a saturday night.
My honey-bunny is here... and she's better than anything.
Even if she's already sleeping.
I'm so middle aged.