Tempus Sure Does Fugit

Yesterday was the 60th birthday of our star writer and editor-in-chief and very unsatisfactory janitor, so we spent less than our usual amount of time poring over the news of the day. Sixty is one of those significantly round numbers one passes through on the surprisingly short journey from cradle to grave, and it brings to mind the admonition in Isaiah 22:13 to “eat and drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die.”
With such Biblical authority we guiltlessly slept well into the afternoon, then headed over to the ghetto toward Kirby’s Beer Store, where our pal Liz was unexpectedly tending bar. Liz is a very gorgeous and charming and intelligent and exceedingly eccentric young woman of about 30 years year of age, and if we were 30 years younger or she were 30 years older or we somehow met somewhere in between we’d be quite smitten, but the way things have turned out we’re well satisfied to have such a fine and uncomplicated friendship with her. She bought us a second can of Pabst Blue Ribbon in honor of our birthday, and we watched a corny old Hollywood flick on Turner Classic Movies together and had a good old time in an otherwise empty ghetto dive.
Our good pal Tom showed up after his day job as a workers’ compensation judge, just in time to wish us a happy birthday. Tom’s a lawyer who got that cushy judgeship as a former Democratic state legislature representative and loyal Democratic functionary, but he’s one of those sane centrist sorts of Democrats and he recognizes us as the sort of sane centrist Republicans he could do business with, and over our long friendship he’s gone out of his way to help at least three people we have cared about who screwed up and needed a lawyer at pro bono or cut-rate prices. We couldn’t accept his generous offer of a third Pabst Blue Ribbon, but his fulsome best birthday wishes were much appreciated.
The friends we usually find after work at Harry’s Uptown Bar and Grill weren’t there, so we headed home and logged onto the internet, where dozens of “Facebook friends” were wishing us a happy birthday. Despite our luddite grumblings we have to admit that’s pretty nice, and after that we had a lovely dinner at a fancy downtown restaurant with our our oldest and dearest friends, our beloved Mom and Dad. The conversation included two merlots and was delightful even when it veered into politics, as Dad agreed that Trump’s monetary policy is wrong, and we mostly talked about well things have relatively gone over the last 60 years.
After another Pabst Blue Ribbon paid for at Kirby’s Beer Store by an aging homosexual friend of ours we headed home to confront to the day’s news, but at that point it didn’t seem so formidable. There was talk of war and recession, but after 60 years we’ve been through a few recessions and deadly wars as well as the economic recoveries and desultory peace that has always followed. After 60 years and a few beers and a couple of glasses of merlot and a full meal of fancy-schmantzy mahi-mahi and mushroom buttons we’ll hope for the best, but admit that the worst is well within in the range of the possible. So long as friends and family somehow thrive, as they have for far longer than our 60 years, we’ll hold out hope they’ll survive the next inevitable economic downturn and war.
Maybe it’s the wisdom of 60 years, or just the beer and merlot, but we suggest you eat and drink and be merry for tomorrow we die. This daily news is likely to drag on forever.

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