If you don't know and probably don't care, don't worry...but today is Crispin's 60th birthday. As someone who is older than that, I enjoy seeing seemingly virile and energetic middle-aged men hit that target, and know that they're spending some time reflecting, drinking copiously or just hunkered in a darkened corner, whimpering softly...
I've been 40 and I've been 60, and 40 was a helluva lot different than 60. My soldiers gave me a coffee cup emblazoned "Between 30 and death..." My soldiers also did a lot of pushups. Especially on my birthday...
Crispin is undoubtedly recovering from grading finals -- which means reflecting, drinking copiously and hunkering in a darkened corner, whimpering while evaluating his career choices. However, those of us who read his stuff, and those of us who have gotten to know him as a friend need to take a moment, and raise a glass of our poison of choice to Crispin Sartwell.
He may not have yet found his honest man, but I suspect that's because he seldom looks in a mirror except to shave and brush his teeth and act as if he's combing his hair. No Surrender! Slainte! Tiocfaidh Ar La! Up the Republic...and happy birthday, brother.
