I’m officially on vacation, and to me that is the sweet taste of freedom. Sadly, this sense of possibility translates inside my head to:

Things just couldn’t be the same
Cause I’m as free as a bird now
And this bird you’ll never change Oh Oh Oh Oh
And this bird you cannot change
And this bird you cannot change No No I cannot change

Not good to be waking up feeling all Skynyrd, unless, of course, I had lynching on my agenda.

So, this is it kiddies, the last day of my 30s. A decade to remember, as tomorrow I wake all grown up and 40.

As I type this line, the counter to my 40th here shows 10 hours 16 minutes until the day starts. By flying out to California, I prolong my youth by three hours! Thank god for time zones.

In a lot of ways, I don’t honestly give a fuck. I already have a mortgage, no parents and a “career” type of job. Ergo, my life has been stodgy and middle-aged, and the path to inevitably mortality is crystal clear. But, it is fun to milk the sentiments as long as I can.

And, while it lasts, I also have to enjoy the reaction of people who say I don’t look 40. Like the guy on the plane from Phoenix to San Jose, just getting back from a fishing trip to Cuba with his buddies and with whom I solved all of the world’s problems during the flight. Correcting for the fact that he was just on a fishing trip with his buddies, so his meter for seeing womenfolk was probably skewed in my favor, he did ask if I were a student. A student? Yeah, like 20 years ago.

All in all, it’s a fair trade. When I was 12 I looked old enough to by liquor, and I was (thankfully in retrospect) blissfully unaware of my adult appearance. Essentially with the body I have now, I could have gotten into piles of trouble, if I did not act my age. Now when I am older, I’ve gotten those years in appearance back and look maybe a decade younger. Without gray hair at all and only a couple of faint lines, I really can’t complain (I will but I shouldn’t).

Speaking of mortality, I saw The Passion of the Christ last night. I was a little afraid that M. is thinking of converting to Catholicism, he was so eager to see this flick. Forget emotional investment or feelings his becoming Catholic would be a deal breaker in this relationship with a capital ‘D’.

Here’s my brief comment — What the fuck is all of the hype and whatnot about anti-semitism and radicalism and whatever the fuck Mel was doing? All you Catholics and former Catholics out there need only refer to your nearest wall in a holy structure or maybe a few stained glass windows; it’s the Stations of the Cross. Or for you youngsters, the kids’ version. Although, the kiddie version confuses my admittedly faulty memory of Catholicism. I thought there were 14 Stations of the Cross and then an un-numbered coda, the Resurrection. But, the kids get a 15th station. I suppose if I cared deeply, I could figure it out.

So the

The Aramaic and the “historical accuracy” and all seem to be smoke and mirrors. No doubt Mel is one of the faithful, but the construction of the story is straight, old-fashioned Catholicism, the whole “holy and apostolic” church, Amen and all.

Granted there’s a whole lot of torn flesh right out of Wes Craven. But, if you think about what a Roman scourge could do, it makes sense.