I turned 39 this weekend. On a Saturday. Just like the first day I appeared on this earth. I remember another Saturday birthday. I was 11. Had spent the night with a friend in the small town of Burrton, Kan., about 30 miles away from home. 50 Ways to Leave Your Lover was spinning on my friend's turntable. Of course it was a 45 record. We were too young to be able to afford an entire album. Even if someone gave you a fiver, you had to beg change off your parents for the tax.
Once we grew tired of hearing Paul Simon tell us how we could dump someone, we walked downtown, climbed in a dumpster behind the local tavern, and scavenged for empty aluminum beer cans.
Back in those days, you had to pick up a can to tell if it was aluminum or the old, unrecyclable kind. It's kind of interesting, being 11 and smelling like a brewery. I went home Saturday morning and opened a long tube that came through the mail from my sister. It was a poster of The Fonz. For those of you too young to remember, Arthur Fonzarelli was THE coolest guy on the planet. Never mind he looked several years older than the high school crowd he hung out with. Today, he might get arrested for what he did. Back then, everything was innocent.
Like being 11 and smelling like a brewery...
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