On reflection, the big 43 didn't completely suck. "Completely suck" is lemon juice on an open cut or squirrel hit by car or too much red meat and coffee diarrhea. This was the first birthday in ages I spent with my best pal from youth, my "little" brother Robert, who's really alive and sober and happy after a long stretch of not-so-much. And we spent it with live music in a dive bar, "doghouse bass" and banjos in the mix. And fuck if I don't look 43.
Aside from the fact, yes, I made one more revolution around the sun, absolutely healthy and somewhat happy, the birthday ummm...pretty much sucked ass. No beautiful cake (but I planned ahead, bought myself a will-do-num-choco cupcake from a little hippie bakery on Boulder's Pearl Street to assure I wouldn’t fail the "must have cake on your birthday" karmic rule), no bottle of champagne. Not much fuss or paying much mind.
Single (read: alone) on your birthday is either the stuff of sitcoms or a very lonely day indeed. Sans family makes it more so. That's why we have tequila.
The day did bring me back to a brother. Means everything, really.