I turn 28 today.
In a few months I’ll have outlived Jimi Hendrix. I’ve already buried Tupac and Biggie.
By the age of 28, Dylan had already recorded Highway 61 Revisited, Blonde on Blonde and Nashville Skyline. Pynchon had already written The Crying of Lot 49. Welles had already released Citizen Kane. And let’s not get started on Mozart.
Not that my best years need to be behind me.
Muhammed Ali didn’t even start boxing until he was 28 Gene Hackman didn’t got an on-screen role until he was 33. Fitzgerald wouldn’t see Gatsby in print until he was 29. Jordan had only brought the Bulls one title. Soderbergh had yet to follow up on the acclaim of sex, lies and videotape. Hemingway had already written The Sun Also Rises, but For Whom The Bell Tolls and The Old Man and the Sea were still ahead of him.
Also of note: when he turned 28, my old man was four short months away from bringing a certain young heartbreaker into the world.
All right, Professor. Enough cake. Back to work.
(correction c/o Matt W., who realized I said 28 when I should have said 18)