Happy Birthday Finny!!!!!!!!

[SCacalaki]

Seems like it was only 4 years ago that you were a youthful 40.

Happy Birthday bud!

[otismalibu]

Mid-40s. Harsh.

We all know how Elvis looked at 44.

Enjoy your Kashi, which I actually tried for the first time a few weeks back. Absolutely vile stuff. I assume once the taste buds give out, it's no worse than snacking on packing peanuts.

Enjoy your day. Grab some vitamin V and treat the gopher princess. Always stretch first.

 

[jonzr]

Happy Birthday Finmeister.

Gliding to fifty
He's on autopilot now
Dreams of pleasant stools

 

[steelerfaninCO]

Happy Birthday Findude. Enjoy the day, and try not to ingest too much sipping tequila.

[vinman3]

Finny is Forty-Flurff, Happy Birthday!

Hope you enjoy a nice clamato on your special day.

 :cheers:  :towel:  :cheers:  

[sage]

Happy BDay Finny! Hope your day brings you mucho cervezas!!! :cheers:  :towel:  :terribletowel:  :old:  

[Y2Joyce]

Glad Tidings. Y2J will party hard. For you. Really.

[Finnegans Wake]

Thanks to all for haiku, condolences, spirits imbibed on behalf of, etc.

It was a nice weekend.  Saw The Dark Knight and enjoyed.  Had a nice dinner with the fams last night, and a quiet sushi takeout dinner will soon transpire at home tonight.

In all honesty, I can say that 44 doesn't feel any damned different from 34, except that I see more silver in the hair.  Life is good, I am blessed, and in spite of drinking as much as three Y2Js, I thrive.

Yesterday I went to Borders to see if they had any John Crowley in stock (looking for the Aegypt tetralogy and Little, Big; Penso?).  Saw an old man and his wife sitting at a table, alone, doing a book signing.  Thought I'd wander over and at least look over his stuff, throw some small talk his way.

Immediately I saw that was impossible.  He was an Auschwitz survivor who, in his 80s, had written a book about his life.  I mumbled a few inarticulate comments, like a stammering dolt.  What the hell do you ask such a person?  Every question seemed inane, or worse.  He and his wife were gracious and warm, all the book copies fanned before them on the table, and we chatted briefly about living in the Harrisburg area, about his family, about America, about nothing much.  I shook his hand: his handshake was warm and strong.  He had blue, blue eyes that were inexpressibly enormous, having carried unimaginable sorrow and joy.  

On my way out, I considered just ducking out.  A young girl, maybe 15, was talking to him, and an older Jewish woman spoke with her.  The girl began crying, overcome by his story, and she bought a copy for him to sign.  The wife said that such emotion should never be the cause of embarassment, that it was a wonderful thing.  I bought a copy and he signed it to me.  "To Jim?" he asked.  "I hope to meet him someday," was his wry comment.  Outside in my car, I started the engine and felt my own tears well up, beyond my ability to explain.

I read the entire book last night -- it was fairly slight, with much left to the reader's imagination -- but it was a book of rebirth and hope, of someone who lived not 10 miles from me, who had come to America with nothing, who lost his father to the camps, who had lost many friends and relatives, who had made a business and raised a family and who loved this country.  He was one of the fewer than 1% of Dutch Jews to have survived his camp experience, and he had seen the worst man had to offer.  And he had gone into the world with the best one can offer, reminding me that every day we are alive is a blessing, an opportunity.  There's no such thing as too late, certainly not at 44 years of age.  

So Kurt Moses, thank you for the gift of your spirit and your words.  

Never forget.

[Big Virgil]

Holy gophers Batman, Finny is 44.

Sounds like a nice old person kind of weekend!!!!!!!

[Finnegans Wake]

So last night, after sushi, the dog is going wild in a way that tells me the groundhog is rooting around in the tomatoes again.  The little hog is dead, but Big Boy is still polishing off my prize Cherokee Purples.  Bastard.   Sure enough, the dog heads down to the bottom corner where the hog slips in, but slides back up the fence and rustles the hog outta the bushes.  Gets the hog in his mouth and is whipping it around like a play toy.  Mrs. F. hears the commotion and comes out and asks what's going on, so I call him off.  I tell her he chased the hog out of the yard, but when he left it, it was on its back looking dead.  Later I go and check, and the thing is gone.  Must have only been stunned.  Dammit dammit dammit.