One day into my 37th year...

...and this is how I look now. Actually, things are working out--so far. For those readers out there who might be aging, be aware that thirty-seven's a bracing total. One of those "what is my dream?/am I following it?/did I misplace it on the way to the bank?" times of life; a not-insubstantial piece is gone, yet (with luck, and replacement organs grown in petri dishes) there is still plenty of time left to explore.

We (Jer and Whit, Kate and I) celebrated over margaritas at the Border Grill, then toddled across the street to Harvelle's, Santa Monica's 75-year-old juke joint. What followed was a prodigious banquette-ensconced grooving, thanks to the psychedelic stylings of Deep Eddy (see left, above). Odd, and compelling--a perfect way to ring in another year of life on this odd and compelling planet. Eddy can play the HELL out of his guitar, and was accompanied by a appealling tambourine player wearing a jangly belt.

I wonder if Harvelle's started as a speakeasy--it was founded during Prohibition, in 1931, when there were about 1,000 jobs in all of Santa Monica. It must have been either that or a soda fountain, and the latter seems unlikely, given Santa Monica's bootlegging past.