The Apollo 11 moon landing happened the day before my 7th birthday. Neil Armstrong did his first step and walk on the moon during my birthday party. No shit. (Interesting to note that of the 12 men who walked on the moon, every one at some point, later, suffered from depression, many sunk into alcoholism – once you walk on the moon, you know nothing in your life will ever come close)
I was born at noon on a Saturday. I was two weeks overdue – another day and they were going to induce labor on my mom.
I share my birthday with Robin Williams, Jon Lovitz, Janet Reno – and Ernest Hemingway. my best friend in high school was born a little over a year earlier, the morning Hemingway shot the top of his head off at the bottom of the stairs in Idaho.
This is my 202nd post in this one-year experiment.
If there is one thing I’ve learned – and wish I had known, really known and took to heart, or had pounded into my romanticizing mind, a few decades ago (and Isaac Asimov had concluded pretty much the same thing, I found out after I realized it) – it is this, Gentle Reader:
Life is really about what happens the day after “Happily Ever After”…
Maybe we’ll meet here again next year… Thanks for hanging out so far