I tend to live in a vacuum and sometimes think that nobody out there knows I’m alive. Well, here’s proof to the contrary. On my birthday:

I woke up and on the table where I have my 5:20 a.m. bowl of Sugar Pops were two cards; one from Mrs. Wife and a hand-drawn one from 6-Year Old Daughter. Nothing beats the artwork of a child.

Maria, my Puerto Rican waitress at the diner, asked why I had such a big grin on my face so I told her it was my birthday. I revealed my age and she said, “Aye! Jooo haf veddygoodskin!” When I left, she handed me a bag with three cookies in it, winked, and put her index finger to her lips—the international symbol for keep my mouth shut.

Boss lady at Benevolent Dictators Inc. brought in a truly scrumptious lemon mousse cake. There was no singing, thank god.

Marylyn, the grand old dame from Queens receptionist, keeps a supply of scratch-off lotto tickets in her desk and doles one out to people who are having a birthday. I won $20! I asked her how old she thought I was. She guessed way low! I said I’d tell her my real age but to please not repeat it to anyone. She said, “Well, then, you’d better not tell ME!” I didn’t.

Two of my colleagues went to Barnes & Nobel on their lunch break and bought me a $30 gift card. They put it in a birthday card that played a Motown song when I opened it.

I got an email birthday greeting from a friend in London whom I have not heard from in a very long time. Gone, but not forgotten!

I receive the green light from our hosts and the in-law-baby sitters to go ahead and book a trip to London in September. It’s payback to for DisneyWorld.

Someone at bukowski.net started a happy birthday thread for me.

In the evening, I attended another Buddhist philosophy/meditation class. It was very satisfying.

* * *
How the hell am I supposed to feel sorry for myself with all that going on? My curmudgeon cred is being compromised. Thank you, all.

Mrs. Wife said that mother- and father-in-law asked what I wanted for my birthday. I told her that they should buy me a lap dance. I thought that was so funny but all I got was The Look. Truthfully, my in-laws lead fairly sedate lives and I don’t think they know what a lap dance is. And I wouldn’t really want one anyway. I’ve never frequented strip clubs and I’m not about to start now. When I lived in Phoenix, I lived right across the street from a very popular strip club but I never went. Not once! There’s nothing wrong with them. They’re just not for me. I’ve never enjoyed myself on the few occasions that I visited one. Strip clubs are like Las Vegas: they somehow manage to project an image of glamour and raw sexuality, but when you get up close and examine what’s under the rock, all you find are heartbroken and lonely people. And I mean the men and the women.

I could never buy into the fantasy. Most men (heck, probably ALL men except for me) have no problem imagining that these women—perfect physical specimens one and all—would like nothing more than to go home with them and head straight to the bedroom. No questions asked before, no obligations after. It’s innocent enough. They know it’s all just a daydream, so they roll with it and have a good time. My experience has always been that as soon as my wallet was empty, I was persona non grata. It’s dating in New York all over again. I don’t need to pay someone to reject me because I ran out of cash. I’ve gotten PLENTY of that in the past for free and the less I dredge up those memories, the better.

I always end up feeling sorry for the girls. How detached do you need to be in order to be good at something like that? Have you seen what some of the men look like? They ain’t Richard Gere, although many of the girls are as beautiful as Julia Roberts. I listen to Howard Stern almost daily and he has an unending parade of strippers and porn actors on. He’s a master interviewer and in almost every instance, he’s able to extract some underlying sadness or tragedy that drove them to strip for a living.

M dated a stripper for a short time. Once, after he picked her up from work, they got into a terrible argument. She was sitting in the front passenger seat and kicked his windshield with the heel of her stiletto shoe so hard that it put a crack in it that slowly spread over the following months. So you have to be careful of strippers because they can have a volatile temper. Although, I hear the sex is phenomenal.

The New York Times called yesterday’s final at Wimbledon and “epic battle” and “one of the greatest tennis matches ever played…” I feel like I missed out on something really important but, I apologize Mr. Nadal, I just don’t care about tennis at all. To me, it’s no different than watching two people play Pong on an old Atari. I’m sure there’s more to it than that but it eludes me. I use to date a girl who played a lot of tennis and she tried to explain the scoring system to me on three separate occasions. My eyes glazed over each time and it never sunk in. When I put a wall up, I make a commitment to my detachment.

Speaking of detachment…

I am the world’s worst babysitter. I was simultaneously babysitting 2-Year Old Daughter and creating a set of back-up system disks for the new HP. I forgot about the babysitting part and snapped out of it just in time to see that she had colored her hands a deep blue with a marker and was about to color the new carpet in the office. I used my ninja like speed and snatched it out of her hand, causing her to let out a shriek, and then a screech, which was quickly followed by a wail.

Babysitting a 2-year old is an acquired skill that I haven’t quite mastered yet. And don’t let Mrs. Wife—in fact, let’s expand on that—don’t let ANY wife catch you categorizing time spent with your 2-year old as babysitting. Their eyes roll up into their heads, they start to vibrate and their hands clinch and unclench in quick bursts. It’s not babysitting if it’s your own child. They insist on that distinction.

Sorry, ladies, but if it looks like babysitting and feels like babysitting then it is, in fact, babysitting.

Former North Carolina senator Jesse Helms just passed away. Have a nice time in hell, Senator. Tell Jerry Falwell I said hello.

* * *

Back in March, I saw Ian McShane play Max, a rage-filled father, in Harold Pinter’s The Homecoming. Yesterday, I took 6-Year Old Daughter to see Kung Fu Panda. In it, Mr. McShane plays Tai Lung, a rage-filled snow leopard who was abandoned by his father. Wheels within wheels. Mr. McShane is gettin’ paid and bravo for him, I say. The movie was surprisingly satisfying. Those kids’ movies have a way of sneaking up on you.

It is necessary to cultivate some discipline of mind, for an undisciplined mind always finds excuses to act selfishly and thoughtlessly. When the mind is undisciplined, the body is also undisciplined, and so is speech and action.

-Anguttara Nikaya