I hate birthdays, especially my own, which is ominously arriving next month. I used to love them, back in those days when I had something tangible to look forward to: getting my first car, graduating high school, my first legal alcoholic drink, a new Star Wars film that’s actually good. That time is long gone. I can do all those things I listed, plus I haven’t seen a good Star Wars movie in more than 20 years. What am I even celebrating at 42? A slightly paunchier waistline? A larger bald spot? If the present you’re getting me isn’t a free Turkish hair transplant, I don’t want it. I don’t relish being 42, but imagine if I were 250?
America (the country, not the band) turns 250 this weekend, and we’re all meant to celebrate that fact on the Fourth of July. Millions of dollars have been poured into marking the occasion, though few of the events hold much appeal for me. I didn’t watch the UFC event; I have no desire to watch a bunch of cars driving around in circles, and the PragerU Freedom Truck hasn’t even come to my town. I couldn’t even get to finally see Vanilla Ice live in concert. Like every birthday, a lot of money has poured into a day where no one has any fun.
