Image via WikipediaI’m an old man.

I hit the big 3-0 last Friday, and celebrated with the wife and some friends in Chicago. I wish I could say it was like the old days, but 1) I can’t remember a lot of the old days and 2) lately I feel more old than old school.

It was good times though. We hung out with the Mizzi at a punk rock bar on the north side called Delilah’s. Any place that has Bad Religion on the jukebox and Maker’s Mark on special is just fine with me. We really should have stayed longer, but like the old-timer I am, I did the responsible thing and stayed sober so I could drive to the hotel. Five years ago I would have gotten drunk, passed out on Mizzi’s floor instead. I tell myself it’s better this way: no hangover, no bar fights, no embarrassing stories about me that start “so Joe was drinking bourbon straight out of the bottle one night…”

I tell myself it’s better, but it’s not. It’s less fun.

So yeah, Friday night was uneventful. Dinner at a fancy bistro, beer at the Mizzi place, bourbon at the bar, then off to the Holiday Inn with the wife.

The next night was the big event. The Miz’s band — Uncle Jesse’s Hair — played a big show. We had a blast, and the wife got a little tipsy. She insists she only had three or four, but I know for a fact that I went up to the bar far more times than that. I’m also sure that she wouldn’t get the spins after just a few. She’s more hardcore than that — not much — but I give her credit.

In any case, the show was a lot of fun. The Miz forgot the lyrics a bunch of times, his tiny, Asian guitarist signed some drunk whale’s tits, some drunk guy humped a garbage can. All-in-all it was hilarious.

You know what’s not hilarious though? Gastrointestinal distress. That’s what I had after eating at some horrible restaurant earlier in the day. Just another part of getting old, I suppose, but earlier than we’d hoped, the wife and I called it a night.

I hate being old. Now get off my fucking lawn.