Blatant Self-Interest

Today is the day. The day when Neil Young was born, and Booker T of Booker T and the MGs fame. And me, too. I am thirty-three today. As far as our contributions to society and art in general go, I would probably come in third on that particular list. But no matter!

Today I will venture, as I did in my youth, to the Hundred Acre Wood, where the happy animals will caper and cavort, and bring me vodka-tonics. The birds will sing merrily. Perhaps they will break into Green Onions or The Needle and The Damage Done, just to keep continuity. Piglet will perform a duet with Eddie Vedder, but will grow disenchanted with his monotony, and attack him mid-song. Eddie will lie bleeding on the loamy earth as the animated toys dance around his cooling body.

Sorry. Getting a little weird there.

Thirty-three is nice in a numerological sense. It's nice to be divisible by eleven, I have to say.

Also, Jesus was allegedly crucified when he was thirty-three, so I'd better 1. get busy, and 2.be on my guard for Romans.