turned 44 on the day of the year that Charles Bukowski was born and Elvis died. The idea of being old enough to be someone's father has lost all its humor. I scour the personals searching for one titled Leggy Rockabilly Bombshell Seeks Balding Middle Aged Wannabe Rock Star With Big Nose. I arrive, eventually, at the fun I should've had when I was younger, dancing with dreamy girls I'm much too old to interest. Is late really better than never? Is a one foot wiggle entertaining enough? Is outspeeding Little Walter rockin' enough? Is delusional insanity hereditary? Will I ever sing from the diaphragm? Will I be alive in twenty years? Should I be saving to buy a house? Can I externalize my ambition? Am I a joke? Can I rule the world? Maybe Elvis was trying to tell me something.

on't send me no young girl to love me
With her eyes shining bright
All the young girls are afraid of me
Send me a woman tonight
Don't send me no hand holding baby
Because I been with babies before
Don't send me nobody that's crazy, Lord
Don't send me no young girls no more

                                             —Randy Newman, "Lover's Prayer"

ertrude Stein once said that we are always the same age inside, and while in my mind's eye I still see myself like this

I ran across this picture of myself on the website of a dance club I frequent and thought, holy crap, when did I get so old?

girl at a club complimented me on my dancing the other night, and I said I don't do too bad for an old guy, and she said You don't look old when you dance, you're sort of like Iggy Pop without all the blood and broken glass, meaning I suppose that I have a bizarre face but a tight bod, which I elected to take as a compliment. Reminds me of the time my last girlfriend said I had a 40 year old head on a 20 year old body. Bad back aside, I guess I'm holding up pretty well from the neck down, but losing my hair bums me out, man. Every male in my family went bald as they grew older, so I knew it was going to happen, but I used to think if I could just make it to 40 with most of my hair that would be okay. I'm 44 now, and finding it distressing nonetheless. I've had a bald spot on the back of my head for a while, but since I can't see the back of my head, as far as I'm concerned I've had a full head of hair until recently. Oh well, that's why God made cowboy hats. We'll see how much hair these young guys have on their back when they get to be my age.

t's not catastrophes, murders, deaths, diseases, that age and kill us;
it's the way people look and laugh, and run up the steps of omnibuses.

                                                                                 —Virginia Woolf

ew Orleans is the best place to celebrate surviving another whole year without dying, not only because the harsh and precarious nature of the place heightens the sense of accomplishment, but also because of its longstanding local tradition of people pinning money to you on your birthday. The bills that your friends stick to your clothes let everyone know it's your birthday, and even strangers on the street will walk up to you and pin a dollar onto your shirt and wish you a happy birthday. New Orleanians are superstitious about their traditions, though, and it's bad luck to count the money before the end of the day. If you head out to a bar, people will buy you drinks all night long, and when the evening is over you are a bit more affluent and very inebriated.

his year, however, I was in San Francisco, and started off my birthday down in the Mission at the Knockout, listening to a singer/songwriter from Texas named Jon Dee Graham with some friends who didn't know it was my birthday until I told them at 12:01 AM that I had just turned 44. I woke up late the next morning, ate breakfast at La Med, went shopping on Haight Street and bought some albums at Amoeba and an art book of paintings and drawings by Woody Guthrie.

also bought myself a couple of pricey fifths of small batch bourbon and compared them to Maker's Mark, my usual go-to whiskey. One was 12 year old Van Winkle Special Reserve from the the Old Rip Van Winkle Distillery in Lawrenceburg, Kentucky, reputedly one of the best bourbon makers around. The other was Blanton's Original, which I'd had before. Like wine connoisseurs, bourbon drinkers can get excessively florid when describing the noses and finishes and whatnot of their favorite brands, but for me it's all about how smooth a bourbon tastes neat, based on its sweetness, how much the proof burns, and how strong the wood taste is. I like the sweetness of Maker's Mark, which has a mellow flavor and an alcohol level that's not too hot. Blanton's is like that and tastes better, but at twice the cost. The Van Winkle had a sharp oak flavor and a bite more akin to scotch, but the more of it I drink the better I like it. At dinner I ordered a shot of Woodford Reserve, another strong small batch bourbon smiliar to the Van Winkle, but not as good. Blanton's, though, that's the one—each barrel is individually bottled without blending together whiskeys from different barrels, and unlike other bourbons, Blanton's isn't aged for a set number of years, their distillery in Frankfort, Kentucky samples the barrels over time and bottles them when the flavor reaches a certain maturity, which accounts for its smoothness. Plus it comes in a groovy cut glass bottle with a cork sporting a horse and jockey.

hat night I took myself to Harris' for prime rib and to the Marines Memorial Theater to see a play about Janis Joplin, which had a kick ass singer impersonating her in front of a live band, but the dramatic part of the show was really weak. All in all, I spent way too much money on myself for my birthday, but oh well, someone had to do it.