364 in dog years.

I had a birthday on Friday. Not a big deal, or so I figured. Birthdays are big deals when we're kids and bigger deals when we're in our 80s. In mid-life, they're numbered occasions remembered by loved ones and retailers who send me coupons for 10-percent off a purchase this week. How nice. It's my birthday, so spend some money on myself. Thanks.

To mark the occasion, I went home and got drunk, although I failed to drink 52 beers, but I did manage to consume more than my age in ounces, so I have that going for me.

On Saturday, I treated myself to a Doug Stanhope show in Philly. He's a funny fuck, and I marked the occasion with shots of Jägermeister, stopping short of the fabled Jägerbomb, although it sounds good. Maybe next year. Or next week. The following is in need of German/English translation from my friend in Germania:

Das ist des Jägers Ehrenschild,
Daß er beschützt und hegt sein Wild,
Weidmännisch jagt, wie sich’s gehört,
Den Schöpfer im Geschöpfe ehrt.

Jägermeister was originally marketed as a medicinal product. It was suggested as a cure for everything from coughing to digestive problems. It was used in World War II as a field anesthetic. I can attest to that. I didn't cough the entire night, and most of my wounds have healed.

Happy birthday to me.