Luckily I wasn’t wrong about it being JG’s 39th birthday last week. Here’s what he had to say about the matter in his last National Post piece:
Thursday. It’s close to midnight and tomorrow’s my 39th birthday. I receive an email from Tucker in anticipation.
“We could have a few guys over to my place tomorrow and watch you get drunk and fall slowly out of your chair until you’re asleep on the floor. Then we’ll play you a British-speaking subliminal tape recording so when you awake, you’ll think you’re from Yorkshire. Welcome to the last year of your thirties, mate!”
I’m starting to wish you could skip from 38 straight to 40. There’s something more dignified about that. It would be like taking control of your destiny before destiny takes control of you. Hanging on to the last dregs of your thirties strikes me as desperate.
Tomorrow will involve dinner with my parents and phone messages from my friends’ kids singing Happy Birthday. I’m sure it’s just me, but every year the tone of their singing seems to get more mocking.
It’s 11:55 p. m. when I crack open a bottle of Jack Daniels I’ve been saving.
“Mr. Daniels,” I say. “I think this is going to be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.” I pour out a shot, brace myself, and wait.
