he year 33 has a little bit of magic in it. It is a palindrome. It’s the number printed on Rolling Rock beer, though I’m not sure why. It is how old Jesus was when he died. And it is how old I will be this Sunday. Thirty-three! Write it backward? Still the same number. 33.

Most of the time, I don’t do much for my birthday. No big parties, no fuss. That’s surprising, because I make such a big deal out of other things--my cat, for instance, or every other day of the month. Throughout my 20s, I made a point of traveling on my birthday, which was a not-so-subtle way of suggesting how much I wanted to avoid it. I was never happy about getting older. And that was when I was, like, 25.

Now that I’m (almost) 33, I feel pretty comfortable making a big fucking deal about my birthday. Parties, dinners, parades in my honor. Bring it on. I’ll milk this for all its worth. On Monday, I’m going to a waterpark with some of my favorite people. A waterpark! I haven’t done that in, like, 10 years. But what the hell? I’ll ride the shit out of a lazy river. And I hope you enjoy Hepolooza 2007 as well. Crack open a beer, or seven. Let’s ride this thing out for days.