It's my party,
And I'll cry if I want to --
Lie if I want to --
Die if I want to --
You would cry, too,
If it happened to you.
OK. Maybe that angst-ridden parody applies to my partisan American friends and their political parties. But it certainly does not apply to me.
I am 60 this week.
Friends and work colleagues are turning the full week into the equivalent of Chanukah. I am not just having a birthDAY celebration. I am having eight days of revelry. Lunches. Dinners. Gifts. General whoopee.
I keep trying to convince all of you that I am the king of postmodernism. I do not care for celebrations -- for symbols -- for tradition. But I am a sucker for all of the attention I have been getting. This day is starting to take on a special meaning. And for some good reason.
As of this month, I start receiving my federal service retirement. That bit of income will allow me to retire at least two years before I had originally planned. In effect, those 28 years of active and reserve duty have now been translated into my road to independence in Mexico.
And for each of you who pay American income taxes, I thank you. You will have to stop by the house in Mexico to lap up your portion in the form of your favorite libation. Anyone asking me to crack open the Dom Perignon better bring his 1040 along for bracket verification.
That is as profound as it is going to get today.
As Bilbo Baggins said at the end of his birthday party: "It's time for me to go."
So -- go I will.
