33.33

A while ago I had an idea of having a party for my thirty-three-and-a-third birthday. Anyone old enough to get the reference would be automatically invited.

The agenda to the party was not only to celebrate my ever-slowing RPM, but secretly to seal a deal with myself. By making it to 33.33 I will have outlived my mom. For a long time I had been convinced that, in her footsteps, I would be stricken with a failing body at an early age. Her death remains as much a mystery to me now as it was when I was 7.

Last winter I mentioned the party idea to Ben as we were watching "The Wire." "Go ahead, have a party," he said, "but don't tell people that last part."

33.33 hits on Saturday. In a painful coincidence, it's also the six-month anniversary of Ben's death.

I can't think of anything more to say. Except to that asshole who nearly ran me over on his bike this morning, careening down lower Broadway at top speed and sailing through a red light:

WATCH WHERE YOU'RE FUCKING GOING.