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The Stones sang a song with a line: “What a drag it is getting older” , although you may remember the line about mother’s little helper.

But, my birthday was yesterday, and I can’t say I feel the way Jagger sang before he and Keith got ancient.

This was one of my better birthdays, really. I feel better about myself and my life and my future than I have in the past several birthdays.

I say this despite the fact that my objective position in life isn’t much different than it has been for some time. Truth depends on what you look for and where you stand when you look when it comes to things like that.

Anyway, I passed the weekend having fun and seeing friends and getting presents and phone calls and cards. I was the center of attention for three or four days and (considering my vanity and ego) what’s not to like about that?

As long as I live to be at least 118, I’m only middle aged. Sixty is the next 30, you know. Cough::bullshit::cough.

If I could just get someone to store a little of this excess crazy I’ve obtained, I wouldn’t have a problem in the world. My bills are paid, my house is nice, I drive a nice car, I have friends and a job and my mom’s healthy and … my cup runneth over.

Don’t expect that fact to mean I won’t be bitching, however. Bitching is one of my constitutionally guaranteed inalienable rights and y’all know how much the United States of America Constitution and its Bill of Rights means nowadays.

For example, my son Jack in New Orleans is cut out of my will for forgetting to call his father and his sister will get all the good stuff whether she wants it or not. I’ll be donating the crazy to the Grand Old Party, they’ll never notice it amongst their own.

Ah, well. I’m at that age where I’ve been there and done that but can’t quite remember it all exactly.

Sinatra demands my attention, I’ll catch you later, alligator.

Blogblah

Dear World,

Thanks but no thanks.

I’m all stocked up on crazy right now, thank you very much.

Oh, sure, I’ve bought lots and lots of your high quality crazy at your low, Low, LOW volume discount prices in the past, but that’s the problem. I’ve got all I need and a surplus. A lifetime supply.

It’s not that I have any complaints with the service. Ready delivery of very high quality insanity has been the hallmark of your marketing department. The prices have been steep at times, but mostly I run into crazy completely free of charge as often as I need and want.

Now, you’re just wasting time for both of us with your solicitations. My decision is firm and final.

NO MORE CRAZY.

Sure, you have a line of personal romance crazy and another of public election insanity and a boutique line of economic nuttiness, but I’m just full up. The cabinets, the closets and even the attic are all stacked to the bursting point. I’ve already outsourced family craziness to my sisters and children because I have so much and they are resisting storing my excess. I just can’t take anymore. No place to put it.

Perhaps you could send the women who think I’d be perfect if I’d only complete this punchlist of changes to a younger man. You can divert the Jesusy ones to someone who lives farther northwest or farther south than 63d and May.

I’m well aware that the deadline for purchase of Bush-Cheney wierdness is upon us, but I’ll have to decline another war, even if Iran is looking ripe. Please hold that side of gas tax holiday, I’ve had enough pandering idiocy to last a very long time. No more FISA flip-flops for dessert, I’m on a diet.

I cannot say that I now believe that running up my credit card balances seems like a good idea even if it is fat free and low cholesterol. Foreclosures and job losses and bear markets are out of the question.

It’s not just the durable goods crazy that I’m done with, World, it’s also the tech crazy. I-whatevers, VISTA operating systems, Wii games and Guitar Hero/Grand Theft Auto IV are also off the board. Please just stop.

World, we’ve had a good relationship for a very long time, but I realize now that when I took delivery of WalMart and SUV crazy, it was the beginning of the end. Don’t ruin it and all my fond memories of my college pot smoking days with more of this crack/meth/drug de jour panic.

Crying acid rain won’t help because my mind is made up. You can also stop with the plastic bags and mountaintop mining.

Breaking up with you in an email, well, this is the last of the crazy for me.

Sincerely,

Blogblah

This Fark headline made me chuckle:

Despite 90+ degree heat, thousands turn out for joint Obama-Clinton Campaign rally in Unity, NH. Through a spokesman, God apologized for the unseasonable heat, saying it was necessary to keep hell from freezing over

This morning’s NY Times contains a column about depression by Dick Cavett.

Part of me wants to write a great deal about my own struggle with depression, but I’ll spare my readers that except to say that, like Cavett, there were many times I wished I had the energy to strangle those who told me to “snap out of it.” Like it was that easy to do. Yah. Why didn’t I think of that?

My recent change of medications, brought on by my long-term success with a medication just not working for me any more, sent me through some weeks of a return of suicidal thoughts and the inability to get out of bed and go to the office. Thankfully, I went through that period with professional help.

My anecdotal experience is that depression is often a “paired” disease (my own formulation, btw), with the depressed person also suffering from alcoholism/drug addiction and/or anxiety. Sometimes the mood swings for some sufferers are so great that it’s bipolar hell. For me, I had to sober up before I could really address the depression.

Hope the column amuses you and deepens your understanding of some of your fellows.

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