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Post by xpt626 on Apr 25, 2004 0:28:34 GMT -5
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Post by Doc on Apr 25, 2004 4:31:40 GMT -5
48. A beautifully complex, highly divisible number. I guess its fitting. I've come to be somewhat complex, and at the rate of my wasteline expansion, highly divisible. Or is it a sort of late mid-early, mid-middle, latently middlin' non-elderly moderate middle age? (I will muddle anything.) Nope. 48. It's simply 48. 48 defies every known category. 48 stands alone as a noteworthy waymark, a resplendant mountain time; a time of fresh awakenings and dew on the forest floor at dawn; a time of regathering, reprocessing and refoisting. And maybe reforesting if you're Brazilian. 48 is the central transition year from the dizzying pace of the 30's and early 40's, to the rhapsodic but reverential composedness of the 50's. 48 is the way forward, the road ahead, the exposed craggy peak of the jagged terrain of a life lived daring to be the first, the best, the loudest. 48 is the time to take out a second mortgage, spend a week on the French Riviera, lease a cutting edge Lexus, and sip top dollar wines while smoking a high-end Dominican cigar at the "Ritz-Carlton Thursday Night Cigar Smoke Out" in the Brasserrie. Be there at 7 sharp. How do you spend your 48th Fabulous, day o'-debauchery? Well, you start by a visit to your tailor, make that first appointment with Jennie Craig (for after lunch tommorrow); listen to the Brandenburg Concertos in front of a roaring fire (somewhere other than the compost heap down at the county waste management facility) and drink like a gentlemen on a romantic night out holding hands with somebody kinda, you know, 'special. Maybe early in the day is when you take a little cash out of that 'stuffed to the gills' savings account and buy yourself a little sump'in' sump'in' as a reward for your dedication and self-control, like a tasteless zebra striped double brested Armani three piece (who cares if the vest is a little restricting) with a flashy pair of oxblood Cole Hahn's adorning your newly manicured pups. (Save Ferragamo for next year.) Two or three hours at the spa; half an hour shopping at the new trendy grocery for an authentic Caesar salad, rack o'-lamb with marinated sauteed veggies, genuine saffron mashed potatoes, some garlic pole beans, a yeast roll or two, for desert, a real "made from scratch" Red Velvet cake shipped from Zabar's the day before yesterday (its been in the fridge) with a luscious scoop of Ben and Jerry's Bovinity Divinity Ice Cream to round off the feast. Cap off with a glass of Dom. The night is young! Plenty of shank for galavanting. So, your pre-reserved limo taxi drops you at a trendy new concept club, "Taffanella's Panic Bistro" where you consort with hot, sexy "on the go", "in the know" people, people who are "making it happen, where it happens, when it happens." But maybe not "why." You down three potent but overpriced designer martini's, do a few lines of something in the bathroom with a bone thin fashion model named Alajouantaient (I can't pronounce it either) visiting from Paris (the powder lines turn out to be some Lancome Face Base, either her purse is a mess or she's a schemer) and then, after coughing up the make-up (and you thought it was the good stuff), and a long smooch with a real "wower" on the patio, you limo home for the home stretch of your féte, the piéce-de-resistance that alone can complete your madcap day, a celebration of selfhood and survival, or orgy of Bachinaillian abandon. Your last act as "Ferris Bueller" is to call Madame Greniard's Escort Service. She sends you a hot man/woman of your verbal description, who arrives unceremoniously at your hot bachelor pad. She/He spends twenty minutes showing you where your erogenous zones WERE (!!!!!), then unceremoniously leaves, not before asking for a check for $300. You've found your zones and can't do a thing with 'em! (But your 48, remember? Should have gotten the Viagra!) Your savings are now shot, your energy is tapped out, but you've just indulged yourself in a day you will never forget, as long as the VISA bills are coming in, anyway. Just as you are getting into bed, Alajouantaient calls (you gave her your card, fool) and in her sinussy French accent, asks you if you have her cell phone by mistake. She really only wants "more to party." You say 'no', but that you've got her number. It's, "au revoir", and a bientot. You dream of buttercups, bluebirds, and the girl with kaleidoscope eyes. So, its my birthday and why did none of this happen? What went wrong? Oh, sh*t. I messed up. I'm only 47, no wonder. Well, next year.................
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Post by JoJo on Apr 25, 2004 8:32:01 GMT -5
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Post by LarryC on Apr 25, 2004 11:17:39 GMT -5
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Post by FlamingPie on Apr 25, 2004 11:41:55 GMT -5
[shadow=red,left,300] [/shadow] (Da na na na na na na na) You say it's your birthday! (Da na na na na na na na) It's my birthday too yeah! (not realy) (Da na na na na na na na)They say it's your birthday! (Da na na na na na na na) We're gonna have a good time!
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Post by eyesbleed on Apr 25, 2004 15:40:30 GMT -5
WOO HOO! It's time to celebrate........ Skip the chores!
I gotta 6-pack of Dos Equis, 6 key limes, & an hour of Green Acres is fixin' to come on! How's that for excitement.!!
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Post by LarryC on Apr 25, 2004 17:58:59 GMT -5
I broke down this afternoon and bought a sixer of Jack Daniels Hard Cola...something different. It isn't too bad either. CHEERS!
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Post by Doc on Apr 25, 2004 22:13:25 GMT -5
I would like to thank everyone for remembering my birthday, all,XPT, Flaming Pie, LarryC, JoJo, Eyesbleed.....thank you so much!!! My co-workers were also very sweet tonight and gave me a birthday send off onstage at the end of our little show with a burthday brownie and 100 customers singing Happy Birthday. I really appreciate---I was a little blue last week--I appreciate being thought of (doesn't everyone): you've made it better. Love out into the cosmos---and onto Proboards..........
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Post by Doc on Apr 24, 2011 18:05:04 GMT -5
48. A beautifully complex, highly divisible number. I guess its fitting. I've come to be somewhat complex, and at the rate of my wasteline expansion, highly divisible. Or is it a sort of late mid-early, mid-middle, latently middlin' non-elderly moderate middle age? (I will muddle anything.) Nope. 48. It's simply 48. 48 defies every known category. 48 stands alone as a noteworthy waymark, a resplendant mountain time; a time of fresh awakenings and dew on the forest floor at dawn; a time of regathering, reprocessing and refoisting. And maybe reforesting if you're Brazilian. 48 is the central transition year from the dizzying pace of the 30's and early 40's, to the rhapsodic but reverential composedness of the 50's. 48 is the way forward, the road ahead, the exposed craggy peak of the jagged terrain of a life lived daring to be the first, the best, the loudest. 48 is the time to take out a second mortgage, spend a week on the French Riviera, lease a cutting edge Lexus, and sip top dollar wines while smoking a high-end Dominican cigar at the "Ritz-Carlton Thursday Night Cigar Smoke Out" in the Brasserrie. Be there at 7 sharp. How do you spend your 48th Fabulous, day o'-debauchery? Well, you start by a visit to your tailor, make that first appointment with Jennie Craig (for after lunch tommorrow); listen to the Brandenburg Concertos in front of a roaring fire (somewhere other than the compost heap down at the county waste management facility) and drink like a gentlemen on a romantic night out holding hands with somebody kinda, you know, 'special. Maybe early in the day is when you take a little cash out of that 'stuffed to the gills' savings account and buy yourself a little sump'in' sump'in' as a reward for your dedication and self-control, like a tasteless zebra striped double brested Armani three piece (who cares if the vest is a little restricting) with a flashy pair of oxblood Cole Hahn's adorning your newly manicured pups. (Save Ferragamo for next year.) Two or three hours at the spa; half an hour shopping at the new trendy grocery for an authentic Caesar salad, rack o'-lamb with marinated sauteed veggies, genuine saffron mashed potatoes, some garlic pole beans, a yeast roll or two, for desert, a real "made from scratch" Red Velvet cake shipped from Zabar's the day before yesterday (its been in the fridge) with a luscious scoop of Ben and Jerry's Bovinity Divinity Ice Cream to round off the feast. Cap off with a glass of Dom. The night is young! Plenty of shank for galavanting. So, your pre-reserved limo taxi drops you at a trendy new concept club, "Taffanella's Panic Bistro" where you consort with hot, sexy "on the go", "in the know" people, people who are "making it happen, where it happens, when it happens." But maybe not "why." You down three potent but overpriced designer martini's, do a few lines of something in the bathroom with a bone thin fashion model named Alajouantaient (I can't pronounce it either) visiting from Paris (the powder lines turn out to be some Lancome Face Base, either her purse is a mess or she's a schemer) and then, after coughing up the make-up (and you thought it was the good stuff), and a long smooch with a real "wower" on the patio, you limo home for the home stretch of your féte, the piéce-de-resistance that alone can complete your madcap day, a celebration of selfhood and survival, or orgy of Bachinaillian abandon. Your last act as "Ferris Bueller" is to call Madame Greniard's Escort Service. She sends you a hot man/woman of your verbal description, who arrives unceremoniously at your hot bachelor pad. She/He spends twenty minutes showing you where your erogenous zones WERE (!!!!!), then unceremoniously leaves, not before asking for a check for $300. You've found your zones and can't do a thing with 'em! (But your 48, remember? Should have gotten the Viagra!) Your savings are now shot, your energy is tapped out, but you've just indulged yourself in a day you will never forget, as long as the VISA bills are coming in, anyway. Just as you are getting into bed, Alajouantaient calls (you gave her your card, fool) and in her sinussy French accent, asks you if you have her cell phone by mistake. She really only wants "more to party." You say 'no', but that you've got her number. It's, "au revoir", and a bientot. You dream of buttercups, bluebirds, and the girl with kaleidoscope eyes. So, its my birthday and why did none of this happen? What went wrong? Oh, sh*t. I messed up. I'm only 47, no wonder. Well, next year................. Whaddabunchofbullsh*tblarneyhocum!!!! What was wrong with me back in 2004-2005? Brain Spaz Fever? I can't even think of all that kind of stuff to ponder over nowadays!!! *sigh* OK so my birthday is tomorrow (here, here, fire the plumes!) and I turn the creaky old age of FIFTY-FOUR! 54! Fire the cannon! Send out the alarm! Total the totum! Shake the Casbah! Split the pea soup! Catch your granny in a doozy! 54. I am so amused. Thank you, God, for letting me arrive at 54. It beats the smithereens out of the alternative! And God Bless everybody here, every poster, young or old, here at Nothing is Real!
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Post by B on Apr 24, 2011 21:50:30 GMT -5
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Post by ipuffin on Apr 25, 2011 1:34:17 GMT -5
Happy Birthday!!!! I brought some cake! sorry it's got kind of messed-up on the way....
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Post by jarvitronics on Apr 25, 2011 9:24:28 GMT -5
Happy birthday Doc. Make it a good one!
(You may not be Jewish, and you're a bit late for First Seder, but go ahead and have that fourth glass of wine!)
-j
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Post by iameye on Apr 25, 2011 10:30:01 GMT -5
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Post by Doc on Apr 25, 2011 14:07:28 GMT -5
Happy birthday Doc. Make it a good one! (You may not be Jewish, and you're a bit late for First Seder, but go ahead and have that fourth glass of wine!) -j jarface, thank you! And, at dinner tonight with friends, I think I am gonna take you advice and have a fourth glass of wine! I've not attended a Seder, yet, but I'll make it my own!
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Post by Doc on Apr 25, 2011 14:08:10 GMT -5
A beautiful candle-abra, candle-abra-cadabra!! Thank you, iameye!!
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Post by iameye on Apr 25, 2011 20:22:23 GMT -5
A beautiful candle-abra, candle-abra-cadabra!! Thank you, iameye!! You are welcome, Doc Robert. We go back a long way, don't we friend? maybe seven, almost eight years of Birthdays, huh? Have a happy one! Again!
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Post by LOVELYRITA on May 1, 2011 17:52:05 GMT -5
Happy Belated Birthday Doc.....I'm not far behind you...coming up here on Wednesday, at 50... Gee, when did we become our parents' age? When you see those silver threads, and creaking knees/back/feet, and we won't discuss the "middle age spread".....then you realize that time has marched on....and some of the footprints of time has stepped on your face in the form of crows' feet.... Ahhhhh. You're among the Baby Boomers.....you are indeed part of many...don't you feel better that everyone else is getting older too?
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Post by P(D)enny La(i)ne on Apr 25, 2012 9:07:03 GMT -5
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Post by Jai Guru Deva on Apr 25, 2012 19:12:44 GMT -5
A very happy birthday to you Doc Robert! ;D
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Post by B on Apr 25, 2012 19:26:26 GMT -5
Doc, I know you don't stop by as often as you used to, but your legacy will be part of this forum for all time! Best wishes!
Happy Birthday Doc!
ps - What's up? ;D
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Deleted
Deleted Member
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Post by Deleted on Apr 25, 2013 19:00:24 GMT -5
Happy Birthday, Doc.
Go live! ;D
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Post by LOVELYRITA on May 1, 2013 21:03:24 GMT -5
If I only knew....I would have decorated a cake for ya....
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