“You’re 57, right?” my friend inquired.

“Hell no,” I replied. “Try 59. March 27, 1954.”

He didn’t believe me. Neither did I.

But it’s true — I turned 59 on Wednesday, the night of the Worm Moon, the first full moon of spring.

We didn’t make a big deal of it. Herself and I had already enjoyed our group birthday dinner out with friends. And anyway, 59 is kind of a bullshit birthday, don’t you think? I mean, it’s good to be on the right side of the lawn and all, but The Big One is a year off, and for that bad boy I want something special: a freshly cloned body to house my exquisitely twisted brain. Say, something in the mid-20s chronologically, as that’s about when I began to start showing the hard mileage.

That’s not to say I disliked my 30s, what I can remember of them. And hitting the “big” three-oh didn’t bug me at all. I got off work at The Pueblo Chieftain, had a quiet beer or two at the Irish Pub, and went home. I’ve gotten crazier than that on the job.

Forty I did not like for some unknown reason. There was a party. I was the pooper. That shit put a stop to the parties, I can tell you.

Fifty? Meh. The AARP gets you by the plums with a downhill pull and that’s that.

But 60? That’s gonna be the shiznit. You lot better start saving your pennies for my birthday body, as I expect the cloning procedure to be expensive, even with Obamacare. I’d like to have some hair in places other than my nostrils, ears and shoulders, maybe do without the vision correction, and be hung a little better, and ain’t none of that shit covered, not even for Democrats.