I was recently interviewed by columnist Rob Trucks for his book about the trauma or pre-trauma or whatever one might call the anticipation of turning 50, which I was at the the time of the interview. I found myself not quite so surprised by this fellow writer's questions as my own answers. Had I spent all year thinking about turning half a century old? Yes, I had. Was I conscious of playing on the back nine? Yes, and there was a frequent line playing in my head, the refrain from my pal Steve Forbert's "Thirty More Years," which addressed his own thoughts on the condition when he faced it. Thirty more years and I am out of here.
Today, the BIG day, brought calls from friends and emails from readers and fellow creators. Paty Cockrum sang to me from South Carolina. Gene Colan, 84, kvelled about how I still had my whole life ahead of me. I treated myself to a copy of Amazing Spider-Man #1 for more money than I should have spent and went off my diet to eat chocolate cake as my small children blew out candles which numbered more than I cared to count. Life may not begin at 50 but playing on the back nine means means I'm on my way towards the clubhouse. And there's no place like home Auntie Em.