Things I did on my birthday:

Drank a strong black cup of Joe, read a book, sipped red wine with friends, helped a beautiful dancer-girl-friend of mine from Australia move her whole house, ugh, waited for these "Russian" guys to show up who she'd called as "movers" (she'd used them before, strong and young and hard), when they finally showed up ninety-minutes late they were actually two guys from Africa speaking fluent French, they'd sent the wrong guys, we looked at each other and she said, "Oh, BLACK RUSSIANS!" which was really funny and then the drinking began, and this is certainly the best anti-racist joke I've heard in awhile, and racism is quite simply ALWAYS a joke, right, and then after said move and key return (LOVE is the Key) we sat on the corner of Paul Robeson Street named after the great poet/singer/activist (I had to go all the way to Europe to learn about Mr. Robeson, one of the greatest Americans who ever lived, yes he was black, funny we never learned about him in school), and have you noticed that the theme of this short peace revolves around all things BLACK? and then I sent a message to that girl in Chicago who used to give me head til yo dead, ahhh so incredibly well (sorry, mom) and she showed me old records from Paul Robeson from her dad's collection, and we exchanged losing-your-virginity stories, how I met that gorgeous cutie from Mecklenburg on this same street and had my first German sex, but I'm getting sidetracked, yeah so we drank (another) black cup of coffee, and suddenly this old man came up to my friend and said in an exotic language, "Young miss, you really should stop smoking, I have lost a few people in my life to that terrible drug," and he was sweet and nimble, and he was polite and smart and fascinating, we listened and he rambled on, looked about fifty but said he was seventy, pretty amazing, fit as a fiddle and rides his bike every day, out-rides guys my age he said, said time is an illusion, then he asked me my age (as it were, my birthday) and I lied (to make him feel younger) and he laughed, and he carried on about politics and cities and countries and wars, and many things he'd lived through, including losing friends as I imagined her lungs getting blacker every minute, listen to the Wise I sayeth thee, tune in, we listened with young and hungry ears, and then he was gone as fast as he'd come, "An angel ..." she said, but whether he was flesh or a holy messenger who-knew but I tell ya this, the best thing he said stayed with me, "The most important thing to be grateful for is your health!" and I pass this on, and in this spirit I rode my bike for about an hour, then had a good drink and a laugh, they got me a chocolate cake! and I met my sexy new secret lover and did it doggie-style (to our mutual delight) while the guests in the restaurant next door listened on, while the photo of Preston Love looked over us, Preston my hero and friend, musician and mentor, Mr. Love the sax man genius who was yes, a BLACK man, and who's ghost (he died in 2004 at the age of 85, but could still out-run a jaguar) cheered me on as I did it with a delicious white woman! Oh, how I cried when he died. He said to let every day count. Let me be the new Mr. Love! I miss you so much, Preston! LOVE will never die ... It's great to be alive, Carpe Diem ... Gawd I need some sleep ...
Peace, -Todd