Gaining Speed Downhill

August 2, 1966. Manchester, Connecticut, USA:Several weeks late, I make my way into the world so rapidly my mother says I was out before the spinal anesthesia took effect.

My first act on earth: I urinated on the doctor.

Which proves conclusively that New Englanders are born, not made. Thank you to everyone who sent me happy birthday wishes.

I will spend the day in a decidedly mundane and middle-aged manner: the gym and a very small mahjong/dinner party.My friend and chiropractor (a sure sign of advancing age is being on a first-name basis with your health care providers) Rick and his wife Gigi are kind enough to be the hosts for this particular event. I have already guaranteed them that there is no reason for trepidation. After all, there's 2 chances for debauchery, property damage, or wanton acts of lust: none and f@#$-all. Don't hand me that "you're as old as you feel" crap.Mydoctor(s) advise me that my knees are those of a 70 year old, and my back is around 60. The rest of my joints are in similar condition. It's the blessing of being tall.

So please, don't tell me I'm as young as I feel.

I feel like sht. Oldsht.

Anyone who has spent any time in Lan Kwai Fong would have to concede that in public, you're only as old (or as married) as youlook . There's also a positive correlation between old and foolish, at least when attempting to hold the attention of someone less than half your age. But I digress...The preceding sounds much more dour than I really feel. I'm in a good mood, looking forward to the party, and I might even get to win at mahjong.

I didn't even mind Rick's receptionist Eva teasing me yesterday about not having a girlfriend to take to the party. Probably because she teases me about it constantly.

I tutor Eva in English, and she has rather quickly mastered certain phrases useful for collecting patients' fees. Yesterday morning (since it's a new month and the fee is due), she looked at me and said in near-perfect English "B*tch, better have my money."Special thanks go out today to Richard Petty, the first and last king of stock car racing, for making an otherwise soul-crushing number have at least some panache. Walter Cronkite is gone, but thank the good LordChris Economaki is still with us.