Thirty fucking five.

Shit.  I turned 35 on Sunday.  I woke up Sunday remembering WHY I quit drinking.  I had to lament the loss of one more year; I couldn't just sit there and let it sneak out.

Sunday, boy, Sunday was a mother.  I wish somebody had gotten the name of the midget that crapped in my mouth.  The wife said that in the wee hours of Sunday morning, she awoke to me flat on my back in bed with my alarm clock clutched to my chest and snoring like a freight train.  Evidently, I had the presence of forethought to set my alarm for the Long Beach Cycle Swap Meet.  I was taking my buddy Tim with, and it was both of our birthdays. 

Tim showed up on Saturday with gas for the blender- yes, gas, for I use a blender for Margs that runs on two-stroke fuel.  It's the blender from hell.  And it's LOUD.  Go figure. 

Tim also shows up with a Harley Davidson clock that makes the engine sounds of that particular hour's motorcycle.  8 am is an XR1000 Sportster that you REALLY don't want to hear the morning after a drinking binge.  So the clock goes off, the alarm goes off, I ignore both until the preggo wifey gives me a good shot in the kidneys.  Timmy calls- I'm comin', I'm comin'.

We roll down to LB and start checking out the goods- the thought I had was, "What do I get  guy that would fit his personality?"  It's tough- I had jack shit for the guy, but he had hooked me up nicely.  So I start looking- first wierd/oddball thing I see, I've got to get it.  It's a swap meet, right?  I hook Timmy up, and I swear, it was the very best gift I could have ever purchased.  He got compliments on it, random people came up and commented, and more than a few offered to buy it from him.  He even took it to Sunday Brunch on the Queen Mary with his wife- set it on the table next to them while they ate.

Here's Timmy with an admirer:

I got my boy Timmy head for his birthday.  The well endowed biker trash next to him was begging to have her picture taken.

Ain't nothin' to a G.