Since the party hatted stuffed animals who will be attending my birthday party are not allowed to use matches (doctor/patient privilege will not allow me to go any further into that), not to mention the fact that not one of them can bake a decent cake, the opportunity to make a wish while blowing out my candles is not likely to arise this evening. Luckily, I have been informed that the night should hold plenty of falling stars upon which to cast my wishes. That being so, I have decided to ready myself with a wish list. Those damn things fall fast, you know. You have to be prepared if you want to take full advantage.

The Vessel's Birthday Wish List:

1. World peace.

2. A piece of the world. (Just an insignificant country like Scotland. Hell, they're probably too drunk to realize I've taken over anyway.)

3. A piece.

4. A kitty.

5. Inner peace.

6. An innertube.

7. An inner ear infection. (For my ex-wife)

8. Infective laughter.

9. Ineffective laughter. (Looks like that one already came true.)

10. A new president.

11. Some new pepsodent. (is it bad when you are offended by your own breath?)

12. To set a precedent.

13. The twins from Doublemint.

14. An end to starvation.

15. Nuclear Non-proliferation.

16. A woman free from menstruation.

17. Or at least a guide to fulfilling masturbation.

18. A free world.

19. A free car.

20. Free Merle!

21. The Bell Jar.

22. A monkey that wears a tux.

22. A monkey that rides a bike.

23. A monkey that can bake a cake.

24. Hell, I just want a monkey.

25. To be able to relax.

26. Exlax. (This should also help with 25)

27. A kitty to play with my monkey.

28. To meet Einstein.

29. To meet Dawkins.

30. To meet Robbins.

31. To get them all in a latex floored room with a vat of baby oil and assorted fruits and vegetables.

32. To live another year.

33. To smile from dawn to dusk.

34. To give Van Gogh back his ear.

35. And to give Val back her tusks.

Happy Birthday Me. And Happy Non-birthday to all of you.

Early September 1971. My older brother is starting school. There is life out beyond the great green expanse known as Yard and soon he will be experiencing all that it has to offer. Reading, writing, friends, milk break, shoe tying; they are all within his grasp now. The whole of the world lay at his fingertips. I am ready as well. I have risen early, filled my tippy cup to the brim; donned my city hat and found my favorite sock. Oh, the adventures that must await me; the trials that beckon with their siren's song of glorious achievement. Today is the day. I am ready for Life. Big glorious wonderful life!

Where do the years go?

In four days I will be thirty eight years old. Its not the birthday at which most find themselves in a deeply introspective stupor, but hey, I live there, so where else would I be? In truth, I find this birthday more significant than the normally dreaded numbers of thirty or forty or fifty. Thirty eight is the twentieth anniversary of what society defines as adulthood. It is the point at which we have had two full decades of adult life to forge ourselves into the strong, stable, independent individuals we always thought we would be.

Are you where you had hoped you would be?

I can remember a time when I wanted to be a professional baseball player. (Actually, it is still that time, but dreams must be put out of their misery at some point). There were also the old standards of fireman, cop, spy, and super hero. As it has turned out I am none of these, though I do wear a red cape from time to time. Now, after my two decades of time to become whatever it is I desired to be, I find myself not only without the desired achievement, but running awfully short on desire itself. It seems my dreams were the little boy in the big red hat, left standing at the screen door.

But don't take this post to be a pity party. I will have none of that. No, the approaching birthday is just one last moment to look back on what I have not become, reflect, learn, and then jump forward into whatever it is that awaits. There are more dreams out there, I just need to find one. After all, that is life. Whether I'm three, thirty eight, or eighty five, something always lies ahead.

I've always liked that picture, but this year, I think I'm going to make it out that door. After all, I didn't get all dressed up for nothing.

What is this world coming to? There is war in the Middle East, Mel Gibson has been arrested for anti-semitic driving, Fargo temperatures hit somewhere around one thousand nine hundred and fifty degrees, and Paris has banned topless sunbathing and thongs along the Seine. Life as we know it is changing, folks, and it doesn't seem to be for the better. Banning thongs, for Christ's sake! Why God, why?

Well, at least, in times like these, there is still a place on this earth a man can go stand on a wooden platform and fling a giant dead eel at another man. No? You mean that's gone too?

It seems the glory days of eel flinging, or conger cuddling as it is known locally, are over for the small English fishing village of Lyme Regis. The ancient game, dating from as far back as 1974, was an annual event in which teams of men stood atop wooden platforms and swung a dead eel at one another trying to topple the opposing team members from their perch (the platform, not the fish). The eels used in the event were collected by the fisherman, who from time to time find them dead in their nets, and were frozen until time for the contest. But, thanks to one animal rights activist with a vendetta against good clean eel flinging fun and, probably, against Democracy, the event has been canceled.

The activist threatened to bring negative publicity to the event by filming it, most likely with help and narration from Michael Moore who would likely say things such as, "That eel could have been president one day," and "This makes me hungry," then distributing the footage to news organizations. The threat was enough for the town to cancel the event, saying "We decided that it really wasn't worth upsetting anybody by going ahead with using a dead conger." Then adding, "But it's a dead conger, for Pete's sake. I shouldn't think the conger could care one way or another."

I never thought I'd live to see the day when drunken fisherman no longer had a venue in which to stand on platforms and smack each other with a dead 25 lb. eel. Actually, I never thought I'd live to see the day on which they did have such a venue. But after they did have that venue, then I never thought I'd see the day when they didn't. But they don't, even though they did, because they no longer do. Yep.

Anyway. The world is going to hell in a hand basket, people, and the hand basket is a no thong zone. Its time for one and all to take a stand in support of the freedom to be stupid and naked before the liberties of ogling over barely clad French booties and smacking each other with deceased sea life are gone forever. Now is the time to rise, take off your pants, and smack someone with a trout. Its for the good of us all.